Hexes & Hush Money by Hazel Caraway

A Cat Café Witch Paranormal Cozy Mystery Book 1

A cursed coin.
A cat-café witch.
A seaside murder steeped in espresso and secrets.

For witch Ivy Rowan, life at the Catnip Café is a magical dream, right down to her purring familiar, Hex. But when a ruthless developer is murdered behind her shop and the town’s restoration fund vanishes with him, Ivy’s dream becomes a waking nightmare.

The sheriff wants her to stick to frothing milk, but she can't when damning gold coins appear at her tables and a rival is struck down by a hexed cappuccino. With Hex suddenly kidnapped, Ivy must act.

To save her familiar and her freedom, she must unravel a century-old money-binding spell to unmask a modern-day killer before the next cup she pours is her own last rites.

This novel is the perfect read for you if you love:

• A Witch Cozy Mystery that blends Cozy Fantasy with a classic Cozy Mystery.
• A clever Woman Sleuth taking on the case as an Amateur Sleuth.
• Heartwarming themes of Found Family and a touch of sweet romance.
• A Whimsical world filled with Magic, Magical Realism, and Funny Fantasy moments.
• A charming small town setting with a Cozy cafe and a crisp Fall atmosphere.
• A story starring a charming Witch and her scene-stealing cats!
• A truly Puzzling Mystery that will keep you guessing until the very end.

Hexes & Hush Money book one of the Cat Café Witch Mysteries serves a shot of paranormal peril with a sprinkle of cozy charm.

Fans of Steeped to Death and Cat About Town will lap up this magical new mystery series.

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Excerpt from Hexes & Hush Money © Copyright 2025 Hazel Caraway

Chapter 1

The trouble with weaving a bit of luck into a customer’s coffee?

You never know what they’ll do with it.

Take Harold Gable this morning.

I’d stirred a whisper of relief for his stiff knuckles into his usual dark roast, watching a cinnamon shimmer, visible only to me, spiral and vanish into the steam.

My intention was simple: grant him a pain-free morning, maybe help him finish the Tuesday crossword. But even before the first sip, the café was already buzzing about something bigger, someone had smashed a window at the harbormaster’s office before dawn. No one knew who, but everyone was certain it meant trouble.

Harold, a man whose fisherman’s knit sweater was as thick as his opinions, slammed his palm on the tabletop, rattling his mug and sending two sugar packets skating to the floor. “That man, Ivy!” His booming voice crashed through the cozy hum of the Catnip Café. “Jonas Pike! He’s going to pave over the salt marsh and build condominiums for city slickers. Mark my words!”

Betty, his wife, didn’t even look up from her knitting. Her silver hair was pinned in a neat bun, a single point of order in Harold’s chaotic orbit. Her needles flashed like twin swords as she finished a row, lips pressed together in amused resignation. “Harold, dear, you’ll give yourself a heart attack. Your blood pressure.” She spared him a glance, glasses sliding down her nose, then refocused on her stitches. “You know Marmalade doesn’t like yelling before breakfast.”

Marmalade, our resident ginger tabby, paused mid-pounce on a wayward shoelace and eyed Harold with dignified annoyance before batting at a passing crumb instead. Captain Jack, the one-eyed tomcat and self-appointed sentinel of the café, sat atop the driftwood cat tree, watching Harold like he was deciding whether the man was worth the trouble. Hex, my familiar, a hulking black cat with a coat so glossy he looked like he’d been cut from midnight, lifted his head from a sunbeam and narrowed his emerald eyes as if weighing whether Harold’s outburst merited intervention.

Harold huffed, shifting in his seat until it creaked in protest, and took a steady gulp of coffee. He grumbled, but his posture eased. “It’s my blood pressure that’s the problem! It’s boiling. But this,” he lifted his mug, voice softening as he inhaled, “this is the only thing that settles me. You do something to it, Ivy?”

I grinned, polishing a mug until my reflection stared back, all unruly brown curls and a smudge of flour on my cheek that I’d definitely missed this morning. “Just a pinch of good intentions, Harold. And a dash of sea air.”

He grunted in satisfaction, then unfolded his copy of the Havenwood Harbor Gazette, turning to the back page. “Right. Feeling sharp now. Let’s see about this last clue… ‘A songbird known for its melodious call.’ Four letters. It’s been mocking me all morning.”

Hex stretched, exposing every tooth and a tongue so pink it almost glowed, then settled into a regal loaf, tail flicking in time with Betty’s knitting needles. When he blinked at me, it felt like judgment.

I flicked a crumb his way. “Save the attitude for later, Hex. I need at least one customer in a good mood.”

He blinked again, this time with a little huff, curling his tail around himself like a silent punctuation mark. Marmalade hopped onto an empty chair near Harold, curling up as though prepared to supervise his crossword progress, while Captain Jack gave a slow yawn from his perch before returning to his silent watch of the room.

A breeze drifted through the slightly crooked windowpanes, carrying the scent of roasting coffee and the faintest tang of salt. Sunlight slanted across battered tables and overstuffed armchairs, lighting up a dust-mote ballet in the golden air. The café was alive with murmurs, laughter, the familiar shuffle of feet, and the occasional thump of a cat jumping down to investigate an unattended muffin.

The Catnip Café wasn’t just my business; it was in my bones. For generations, the Rowan family had kept it alive, a jumble of worn tables, mismatched chairs, and faded rugs, all softly humming with the memory of a hundred years of stories. Books outnumbered mugs on the shelves, their dog-eared spines lined up with handwritten notes tucked inside. The cat tree, built from driftwood and hope, stood like a castle in the corner, sheltering the island’s neediest felines, though Captain Jack clearly considered it his private fortress.

Most mornings we were full of chatter about weather or tourists. Today, there was an edge, every whisper circled back to Jonas Pike’s name.

As I set a tray of scones into the pastry case, Sage Moreno, my best friend and resident voice of reason, slipped behind the counter, bringing her usual whirlwind of energy and the scent of the wildflowers she insisted on tucking into her braid. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, her eyes dancing with mirth. “Heard the tourist nearly ran over three kayakers and a lobster trap, too.”

“Probably thought it was a free-range buffet,” Betty said dryly.

Sage rolled her eyes. “He’s lucky the sheriff didn’t catch him.”

“Speaking of,” Harold said, craning his neck, “I saw Dylan Marsh’s truck outside Town Hall earlier.” He lowered his voice, leaning forward with a conspiratorial wink. “His patrol route has gotten mighty small lately, if you ask me. Seems to end right at this front door most days.”

Betty didn’t look up from her knitting, but a small smile played on her lips. “This town is too small for real crime, Harold. Unless the Sheriff has put a certain café owner under special surveillance.”

My cheeks went warm. “Maybe he just likes the coffee.”

At that, Sage arched an eyebrow, her own grin widening. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Don’t start,” I muttered, turning away to hide my own smile.