“If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.” —Katharine Hepburn

In her bewitching novels of female friendship, fun, and delicious mischief, Dolores Stewart Riccio has charmed readers who want to know more about marvelous Cass, sweet Heather, wickedly witty Phillipa, eccentric mom Deidre, and whip-smart Fiona—five deeply committed sisters-in-arms with a little something extra on their side. Now, in Ladies Courting Trouble, the most fascinating women in Plymouth, Massachusetts, are back in the thick of the action, which suits them just fine…

October in New England is a grand time—great for carving pumpkins, throwing Halloween parties, baking and eating brownies, and…dropping dead? When a helmlock-laced brownie at the church hospitality hour spells the end for an elderly townswoman, Cass Shipton and her circle of fabulous friends get to work using their very special brand of detective skills to ferret out the culprit. After all, their unorthodox recipe of magic, clairvoyance, and good old-fashioned common sense hasn’t let them down yet…

Praise for Dolores Stewart Riccio and Circle of Five

“A bewitching tale.”—Midwest Book Review

“This story has everything from suspense to laughter. Delicious…with a magic all its own.” —Rendezvous

“Humorous moments are deftly intertwined with truly creepy ones.” —Booklist

“Delicious…filled with magic…and delight.”—Phyllis Curott

“Witty and fast-paced…charming…a fun read and food for thought.” —Joe Haldeman

Dolores Stewart Riccio is the author of three previous Cass Shipton novels, The Divine Circle of Ladies Making Mischief, Circle of Five, and Charmed Circle, as well as numerous highly acclaimed nonfiction books on the subjects of health and cooking. She lives in Rhode Island and is currently at work on her next novel.

Chapter One

“Double, double, toil and trouble.. .” Phillipa grinned wickedly as she lay down the tenth card from the Rider- Waite deck, last of the layout; it was called The Moon. “I wouldn’t take on any new crusades if I were you, Cass. From start to finish, this reading counsels you to watch your step.” She leaned over the layout, dark wings of her hair falling forward, her expression disapproving, like a garage mechanic sizing up a faulty carburetor.

A bunch of swords and wands in my cards, so what? I was beginning to be sorry that I’d asked her to read the tarot for me. Three phases of the moon looking down upon a howling wolf and a smiling dog—what was so bad about that?

“It’s a card of hidden foes and unforeseen perils. The wolf, now—that’s a symbol of untamed creation. The dog, on the other hand, adapts to mankind insofar as it suits his own interests, sort of like your dog, Scruffy. And see this rugged path through hostile country? Not to mention this crayfish popping out from the pool of the Cosmic Mind.” Phillipa’s blunt fingernail pointed to various pictorial elements. “What did you tell me you were doing this Samhain? I mean, apart from our own circle ceremony.”

“Church. I’ve been invited to give a talk at the Garden of Gethsemane Ladies’ League on the origins of Halloween in our Samhain. I really loathe giving speeches, but I feel I ought to represent Wicca in a favorable light whenever I have the chance.”

“‘Fire burn, and cauldron bubble,’” my hostess intoned, giving a quick stir to the pot of pear and mango chutney simmering on her Viking range, wafting the spicy aroma throughout the room. I thought there must be extra calories in the very air of Phillipa’s state-of-the-art kitchen. Not to mention the “Fall Fruit Breads” we were sampling with our tea, the theme of her next bimonthly cable cooking show, Kitchen Magic. As Colette wrote, and Phillipa was fond of quoting on and off the air, “‘If you aren’t up to a little magic, you shouldn’t waste your time trying to cook.’”

Phillipa returned to the long marble table and gave my cards another gloomy look before gathering them up. “Five of wands, seven of swords. Maybe the Gethsemane Ladies are planning an exorcism or something. Rid you of the cursed demons that possess you, my dear.”

“Not at all,” I said. “The Reverend Peacedale couldn’t be more ecumenical-minded. I suspect he’s quite interested in the mystic experience per se. My clairvoyant episodes, I mean. And he understands that the ancient nature religions predate the advent of Satan and therefore have nothing devilish about them.”

“Well, don’t say you weren’t warned.”

Which is what I thought about later, while having my stomach pumped out at Jordan Hospital. The Ladies’ League Hospitality Hour had been as disastrous as my lugubrious friend possibly could have predicted. Only the strong hands of my bridegroom, Joe Ulysses, holding me back by one shoulder, and those of a robust nurse on the other side had kept me from pulling the gagging, scratching tube out of my throat and to hell with it. Probably one of the worst hours of my life. I really was tempted to call up a few impish entities I’d read about to avenge my misery, but I am pledged to work on the white side of Wicca.

I wasn’t the only one enduring the unendurable. Several members of the League and the minister’s wife were also at the hospital, and as I learned later, one of the older spinsters, whose passion was chocolate—Lydia Craig—wouldn’t be making it to the All Saints’ Day service on November first. Poison hemlock causes weakness, nausea, vomiting, difficulty in breathing, and, if enough of it is ingested, paralysis and death. And those mystery brownies had been cleverly laced with the stuff. It was almost enough to turn a gal off chocolate forever.

I recalled how Mrs. Peacedale—Patty—had made a face when she nibbled at her brownie, muttering that the baking soda had not been properly sifted into the flour. I too had thought they were rather musty or mousy-tasting despite a liberal dose of vanilla. But any brownies would suffer in comparison to Phillipa’s.

Then, when everyone began to feel ill, the herbal lore in my brain clicked in. I guessed immediately what we’d eaten and told the paramedics. “I’m certain it was poison hemlock—that mousy aftertaste,” I’d said weakly. Due to my conviction, we all got our stomachs pumped out immediately, while I was mentally kicking myself for my stupidity. I’d eaten one too many bites of that fetid brownie, purely out of politeness.

As the endless day at Jordan Hospital wore on, and it was obvious that I would never eat again, I urged Joe to go home to feed himself and Scruffy. “Don’t worry about me,” I said faintly, laying on the guilt. “You two have a good meal.”

His Aegean blue eyes looked worried and somewhat reproachful. “How could this happen? And at a church social, for God’s sake? Can’t you go anywhere without being drawn into danger?”

“Is this the pot calling the kettle black ass?” I suggested. As a ship’s engineer for Greenpeace, Joe continually sails into his own share of perilous misadventures.

“And I thought that once we were married you’d be happy to stay at home and tend to the weaving,” he complained, grinning sheepishly. After a few restorative kisses, he left, with touching reluctance, and the evening nurse appeared.

“Hi. My name is Brenda. Are we feeling better now, Mrs. Ulysses?” she inquired briskly while she took my blood pressure.

Although assuming an air of motherly authority, she was at least ten years younger than I, a pale girl with slightly protruding eyes and fine brown hair falling out of its coil. “You were lucky, you know, honey. You didn’t eat too much, and it didn’t get too far. Was that your husband who just left? Nice tan for this time of year. Tanning salon?”

“No, Greenpeace. He travels the world in search of environmental hazards, often in tropical climes. And it’s Ms. Shipton,” I mumbled. My throat was still sore. “My good luck was being the guest speaker at the League. People kept asking me questions, so I was delayed in getting to the hospitality table until after almost everyone else. And I didn’t finish my brownie, which didn’t taste very good.”

She checked my bracelet I.D. “Oh, yes. Shipton. I see. I wouldn’t mind being a Mrs. myself, but that’s just me. What was the talk about, honey?”

“Nature spirituality religions in pagan times. The origins of Halloween. And modern-day Wicca.”

“Is that, like, witches, curses, and all?” Nurse Brenda glanced at my face again as if she might have missed some telltale sign, such as green skin or a wart on my nose. Soon she’d connect “Shipton” with our circle’s notoriety in becoming involved in local crimes.

Speaking of which, any minute now the circle would be alerted. Phillipa would probably hear the news first and call Fiona, Heather, and Deidre. The circle would be swarming in here, bringing their various healing arts, none of which would include anything as cursed as gastric lavage, ugh. A few stomach-calming herbs, a little white light, a homey lecture from Fiona.

“Not witches. Wiccans, actually,” I corrected Brenda. “So, have they discovered who brought the lethal brownies to the Ladies’ League yet?”

“I can’t imagine who would try to poison a nice group of church ladies. Two detectives are working their way down the hall right now, questioning the victims who are well enough to provide information. They’ll get to you pretty soon, and you can ask them if an arrest is imminent.” Brenda cast a calculating look my way. Perhaps I had made her personal list of suspects—either because of the Wiccan connection or my herbal business, Cassandra Ship- ton, Earthlore Herbal Preparations and Cruelty-Free Cosmetics.

Besides “whodunit?” the other big question on my mind, which I did not voice aloud, was how a person with clairvoyant skills like myself could munch up a poisoned brownie without a clue. Admittedly, I could hardly ever summon up my visions at will. They came and went by their own mysterious plan, hardly ever with glad tidings or a winning lottery number.

I was relieved to see it was Stone Stern and his partner, Billy Mann, who arrived at my room soon after Brenda bustled away. Phillipa’s husband is a tall, scholarly looking man, surprisingly gentle for one in his profession. “Cass, what in the world?” Stone took my hand and squeezed it gently. There was real warmth in those gray eyes behind oval, metal-framed glasses. “I don’t mean to scold you when you’re in a weakened state, but why do I always find you in the midst of mayhem and murder?”

“Same question Joe often asks me. Obviously, it’s my karma. Does Mrs. Peacedale know who donated the hemlock treats? Did Bevvy Besant eat the damned things? She’s the hospitality chairperson, so she might have an idea who brought them. And how many victims were there, anyway?”

“Relax, Cass. Mundane as my talents may be, I’ll do the investigating. But no, the minister’s wife doesn’t know who donated the brownies to the hospitality table. And yes, Mrs. Besant is here in the hospital but indisposed at the moment. Thirteen persons in all were admitted to the hospital, including a teenage boy delivering office supplies who copped a brownie out of the church kitchen. Tough on him, but a good thing, actually. Narrowed the poison field down to the brownies, although you helped with that, too, so I heard. Nevertheless, every item served will be tested.”

“Uh oh—Bevvy’s getting pumped, the poor baby,” I murmured. “And what about poor Lydia Craig? She seemed like a sprightly old lady. The poison took her rather fast, didn’t it? Has her family arrived?”

“Yes, it was all over quickly. Speedier than Socrates, in fact. But relatively painless as poisons go. The ancient Greeks considered it a humane method of execution. Weakness of the limbs, followed by paralysis of the breathing apparatus. She must have eaten quite a few of those brownies, although all the survivors mentioned a kind of ‘musty’ or ‘bitter’ flavor. Apparently, the Craig woman was known to have a big yen for chocolate.” Turning to his partner, Stern said, “Have the Craig family members been notified yet, Billy?”

Billy, a beefy, red-cheeked guy who looked as if he’d been sent down from Central Casting to play an Irish cop, had been leaning on the door frame, studying his notes with a puzzled frown. At the mention of his name, however, he looked up and grinned. “Hey, Cass. How ya doing? Reverend Peacedale and a uniform are breaking the news to the Craigs. I understand the old lady was a spinster, no immediate family, but some nephews and a niece who are local.”

“So, Cass,” Stone continued, “can you shed any light at all on the poisonings?”

“Did the incident have anything to do with your being the guest of honor?” Billy asked. He removed a pencil stump wedged behind his ear and poised it above his notebook.

I hadn’t thought of that. Could anyone be crazy enough to register their protest to Wicca by poisoning the brownies? “Maybe. But I don’t really feel that was the motive. And beyond that, I haven’t a clue. Sorry.” And I was sorry. I really wanted to help Stone. What I needed here was a helpful little vision showing me why, when, and, above all, who. “Maybe something will come to me later.”

“No one seems to know anything,” Billy complained. “We can pair up every single one of those sweets with a church member except the brownies. They simply appeared out of nowhere in the kitchen, and the coffee-hour hostesses set them out on the buffet.”

“Like magic.” Stone winked at me, squeezed my hand again, then stepped back to allow my so-called dinner tray to be placed in front of me. After the orderly left, Stone said, “Before you eat any of that stuff, I should warn you that Phil’s on her way.” Then he and Billy departed to see if Bevvy was talking yet.

“Drink it, you mean,” I muttered to myself, eyeing my tray. Insipid broth, industrial tea, pale apple juice, and some kind of weird gelatin, Laboratory Lime perhaps.

My next visitor was Selwyn (“call me Wyn”) Peacedale, pastor of the Garden of Gethsemane Presbyterian Church of Plymouth, which was located just around the corner from my house, an antique saltbox overlooking the Atlantic. I’ve always thought Wyn resembles a heavenly cherub who has aged a bit, but today his round cheeks and dimples were lost in grief. He took my hand in a pastoral way; his was feverishly damp, mine icy cold. “How’re you doing, Cass? What a terrible thing this is! I’m so sorry that you were a victim in this vicious attack on the church. As it happened, I had to leave to attend to some pressing parish matters right after your most informative talk, or I probably would have been poisoned myself. I love chocolate stuff, you know. But you ... your first time as a visitor to Gethsemane. . . .”

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