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Best Cosy Books

The Witching Hour (PAPERBACK)

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PAPERBACK. Book 2 of the His Ghoul Friday paranormal cozy mystery series.

When Australian journalist, Misty Friday, receives a mysterious letter summoning her to England, she expects to find her elderly relative. 

Instead, she has a witch of a time, stumbling across danger, a cat, bad coffee, and the enigmatic John Smith, who has his own reasons for being in Britain. The murder of her relative brings more questions.

Can Misty solve the murder before she becomes the next victim? Will she survive her new cat's attitude? And, more importantly, will she find good coffee before it's too late?

Or is that witchful thinking? 


 Paperback 232 pages
 Dimensions  5 x 0.53 x 8 inches (127 x 13.5 x 203mm)
 ISBN 9781922595669
 Publication date March 29, 2019
 Publisher Best Cosy Books

Read a Sample


I awoke with a start. Someone was shaking me gently.
“Misty, wake up! It’s morning.”
Cordelia had stayed overnight. We had binge watched The Wicked Adventures of Sabrina for most of the night. At some point in the night we had fallen asleep.
“I can’t believe I slept on the sofa all night,” I said to Cordelia as I stretched and yawned.
She rubbed her neck. “Well, I slept on the chair. We’d better hurry so we’re not late for work. We have a lovely day to look forward to with Skinny.” Every syllable dripped with sarcasm.
Skinny was Daisy, the editor of the magazine where Cordelia and I worked. She did everything she could to make our lives a misery and filled the boss’s ear with tales of our incompetence. Daisy constantly commented on what Cordelia and I ate, which led to us calling her Skinny, not to her face, of course.
“Things couldn’t get any worse,” I said with a laugh.
Cordelia headed to the kitchen, presumably to make coffee, but she was only gone a minute or two before she hurried back, minus the coffee. “It’s that nosy mail lady! I just caught a glimpse of her coming up the path.”
In my small country town, Julie delivers the parcels from her van direct to people’s doorsteps and her husband, Craig, delivers letters and small envelopes into letterboxes on his motorcycle. I apparently have one of those faces that encourages people to speak to me, and for months now, Julie has told me all her marital problems as well as all the town gossip, real or imagined.
I tiptoed to the nearest window and peeked out. To my horror, Julie was waving a letter at the front door.
“It’s not a bill for once,” she screeched. “I know you’re in there, Misty!”
I sighed and opened the door. Julie made to push inside, but I kept my weight firmly against the door. “Thanks,” I said as I took the letter from her. “Where’s Craig?”
“I told him I wanted to deliver this letter to you, seeing that it’s from England. Do you know anyone in England?”
“No. Bye, Julie. See you next time.” I pushed the door with my shoulder and locked it. I waited for a while until she was out of earshot.
“Has she opened your mail again?” Cordelia asked me.
I inspected the letter. “I don’t think so. If she has, she’s done a better job than usual of gluing it back together. She’s right though, the postmark is from England.”
“Maybe somebody died and left you a sizeable inheritance,” Cordelia said hopefully.
“I wish! Oh, not that someone died,” I added lamely. I turned the envelope over, but water damage had ruined the return address.
Cordelia looked over my shoulder. “What does it say?”
I ripped the letter open. The letter was handwritten in a flowery scroll. I read it aloud.
“My dearest Misty, I fear I am not long for this world. I am writing to you because I would like you to collect items pertaining to the family history. I have something very important to give you. I also have photos and charts, some back to the Domesday Book. These are too valuable to send to you, so I need you to visit me to collect them at your earliest convenience.”
“What else did she say?” Cordelia asked.
I handed her the letter. It was overpowered by the scent of violets with a hint of naphthalene. “Nothing else. Aunt Beth writes as if I can simply pop across the other side of the world to collect whatever she wants to give me,” I said with a laugh.
We both shrugged and staggered to the kitchen to make coffee. I wouldn’t have given it another thought or even replied in any hurry. It’s not as if she had left an email address.
It’s only that, as I was throwing the letter down on the kitchen table, I saw the return address at the top of the letter, High Wycombe.

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