Free Wicked by Any Other Name by Linda Wisdom Page A

witches’ entire history. Luckily, no one had given them grief. At least, not until Carrie decided that Stasi had used witchcraft to ruin her marriage.
    At twenty-seven, Ginny looked the same age as Stasi and the women had become close friends.
    â€œYou might want to stay away from Fresh Baked Goods,” Ginny advised. “Carrie’s in there holding court telling anyone who’ll listen to her that she found the perfect way to sue you for ruining her marriage and that by the time she’s finished with you you’ll have nothing. She’s even hinting you did it because you wanted him for yourself. I’d say she has you rated up there with the Wicked Witch of the West.”
    Stasi sighed. “At least I don’t have the green skin. Carrie did this to herself, and I’d be more than happy to tell her so. I should probably just settle the lawsuit, but it’s the principle of the thing.” She ignored the tiny whisper inside her head reminding her that she did add a little negativity to Carrie’s sachet. Even if the hateful woman deserved it, it wasn’t something Stasi should have done.
    Ginny shook her head. “Don’t do it, hon. Carrie’s always had a nasty streak and now it’s coming out full bore.”
    â€œMaybe she should have picked up a few romance books for inspiration instead of relying on lingerie,” Stasi groused. “That or shop at Fredericks of Hollywood.”
    Ginny playfully covered her eyes. “Oh please, the vision of Carrie in crotchless undies and a bra with cutouts is much too painful!” She touched Stasi’s arm. “Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”
    â€œFor you, yes.”
    The two women walked inside, and Stasi settled in a booth by the door while Ginny fetched their coffee. She noticed that Floyd and his cronies were already ensconced at their table. She was surprised when Floyd frowned at her before turning back to his friends.
    â€œAgnes is Carrie’s aunt,” Ginny reminded her, noticing Floyd’s expression. She set down a tray with two coffee cups and two cinnamon streusel muffins. “Not from the bakery,” she whispered with a conspirator’s grin.
    â€œYou must cut into their business.” Stasi pinched off a corner of the still-warm muffin.
    â€œTheir main business seems to be all the varieties of breads they bake.” Ginny took the bench across from her. “My mother swears by their cinnamon raisin bread. She has a slice every morning for breakfast and even snacks on it during the day. Dad loves one of the rye breads they offer. Everyone seems to have a different favorite.”
    â€œI wasn’t surprised everyone was in there when they first opened. We didn’t have a bakery, and it was nice to pick up treats on a moment’s notice.” Stasi nibbled her muffin. “But now it’s as if people can’t exist without them.”
    â€œReed and Poppy have talked to me about selling their baked goods here, but I love making my pies and cakes.” She looked around the small café that had been a town staple for more than 150 years. Stasi remembered when Ginny’s great-great-grandparents had cooked under a canvas tent and dished out beef stew and biscuits to hungry miners back in the mid-1800s. It was the beginning of the small café where Stasi and Blair had worked as waitresses when the couple was able to erect a building. They later moved their café down the street to its current, more visible location. Ginny made improvements to keep the equipment up-to-date, but otherwise the interior retained its down-home charm, and Ginny still served up the beef stew and homemade biscuits her great-great-grandmother had been known for.
    Ginny sipped her coffee while keeping her eye on the tables and booths, which were mostly empty at this hour. Stasi knew within an hour the place would be filled with the lunch crowd and Ginny’s two