Ghostly Garlic

by Ami Diane

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Series List

  Chapter One

  COLD SUDS SLOSHED down the front of Libby Slade’s shirt and shorts. Even with the breeze from the bay, the water felt good. A rare blistering sun on the Washington coast was making a harsh introduction to summer.

  A row of cars queued behind the cherry red pickup she was currently scrubbing. Fresh sweat ran from her forehead and mixed with the suds on her cheek, one of the few patches of dry skin left.

  Typically, a carwash was a great way to fundraise, especially favored by high school students. In movies, it was usually at this point when a busty blonde in a bikini would ring out a sponge in slow motion.

  Instead, a gaggle of women, ranging in age from their early thirties to late eighties buzzed about the string of vehicles winding through the beachside parking lot.

  The man in the pickup held a five-dollar bill out his window, his expression pinched as he took in the other women.

  “What’d you say this was for again?” His fingers still had an iron-grip on the bill as Libby played Tug of War with it.

  “The proceeds go to the Fisher House Foundation. It’s a charity for military and veterans’ families to stay free of charge while a loved one is in the hospital.”

  “Are you lot with that ol’ folks home down the way?”

  “No—well, some of us might be.” Her eyes slid to Beatrice who appeared to be a female version of Father Time as she snoozed in her sunhat.

  “It’s just—” The bill gave a fraction of an inch. “—usually there are hot girls at these things.”

  She swept her hand over her thighs, the color of which could bring down a plane. “This doesn’t do it for you?”

  “No offense. You’re about the only good-looking one here.”

  “Thanks?”

  “But you’re all covered up.” He jerked his head at her sleeveless, high-neck shirt, then his mouth fell open as he ogled something in his side mirror. He cranked his head around, and she could swear she heard something creak in his neck. “And she’s not.”

  Libby sucked in a breath. Behind the pickup, Marge strutted her stuff in a sequined bikini, jiggling in all the wrong places as she scrubbed a minivan.

  Libby swore. “After I told her not to—sorry, but I need to take care of this before she gets arrested for indecent exposure.”

  The man’s fingers were turning white over the currency still connecting them. Feigning a gasp, she pointed with her free hand inside his car. “Looks like your passenger-side window was down the whole time.”

  He spun in his seat, and she ripped the bill from his hand, waved, and plastered a smile across her face. “Have a nice day!”

  Once he’d figured out the interior of his vehicle was dry, he glared and pealed out.

  “Cheapskate,” she mumbled. At this rate, they’d be lucky to collect a hundred dollars.

  Bending, she hauled her semi-clean bucket of water over to Marge’s station. A woman sat in the driver seat of the car the apothecary was washing. Inside, the lady averted her gaze to the pavement out her side-window as if it were the most fascinating thing. Her entire face was red, all the way to the top of her hairline. In the back seat, two young girls stared open-mouthed at the windshield where Marge continued to shimmy and shake.

  “Hey, Red. I’m just about finished here. Want to get the roof?”

  “Yeah, sure. Hey, I thought we’d decided on the whole bathing suit thing at the last meeting?”

  Marge glanced down at her disturbing lack of clothing without a shred of regret in her expression. “Is that what you all were talking about? I forgot to squeeze a few drops of my hearing elixir in my ears that day.”

  Squatting, Libby scrubbed the hubcaps until they gleamed silver—or a color very near it. “Fair enough. And the fact that none of us look like jerky in a swimsuit…?”

  The older potionist paused long enough to glance at her surroundings. “How about that?”

  Five minutes and a very embarrassed mother later, they were waving off the van as it tore out of the parking lot. Marge folded a ten-dollar bill and began to stuff it in her bikini top before seeming to reconsider. “Don’t want to get it wet.”

  “Yes. That certainly would be Beatrice’s first complaint when you hand it over, and not at all related to it touching your… shall we call them, flotation devices?”

  Another car moved into position, and Libby continued, “You know, I’m all for a noble cause, but there are better ways for us to raise funds. Just off the top of my head, a rummage sale or bake sale might be more—” a particularly large collection of bubbles slid down the older woman’s torso, causing Libby to cast her eyes elsewhere “—appropriate.”

  “Maybe if you wore something different, we’d be getting more donations.”

  Thinking of a good retort, Libby approached the next rig with her muddy sponge, wielding it like a weapon. She got one good splat on the warm hood before she realized it was a sheriff’s car.

  Instead of Deputy Jackson occupying the interior as she’d been expecting, a new face glared back. He had beady eyes that were currently traveling from the bubbles on his cruiser to Libby before settling on Marge. A swath of gray hair around the base of his scalp was all that separated his dome from absolute baldness.

  “Afternoon, Sheriff.” Marge gave an exaggerated wink. “Nice of you to come by and donate to—”

  “I’m not here for a car wash. I just wanted to make sure you lot were behaving.” The lines in his face were etched in a permanent scowl.

  “Aren’t we always?”

  “Your book club gets into more trouble than the drug dealers down on first.”

  “You hear that, Red? We got a reputation.”

  The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a bit chilly to be wearing that, don’t you think?”

  “Just working on my tan.” Marge’s hand brushed over her exposed and protruding mid-section.

  Shaking his head, he directed his next question at Libby. “You must be Liberty Slade?”

  “Yes, but I prefer to go by Libby.” She held out a hand, suds still dripping from it. After a long, awkward moment of him not touching it, she reeled it back in. “Yeah, cool beans. I don’t like touching people, either.”

  He harrumphed, ending the note with a “Stay out of trouble” before he pulled out of the lot.

  They watched him edge into the light Wednesday afternoon traffic consisting mostly of folks getting off work early. Libby dropped her sponge into her bucket, sending water sloshing over the sides. “I may be wrong, but I got the impression he wants us to stay out of trouble.”

  “Picked up on that too, did you?”

  “He certainly seems the warm, fuzzy type.”

  “Sheriff Cooper’s one citation away from a nervous brea
kdown, mark my words. I’ve got a few things at my shop that would help him,” Marge said, referring to her apothecary shop.

  “He seems to have it out for our book club especially.” Libby used air quotes around the words “book club.”

  She lugged her bucket over to the faucet outside the public restrooms. The outside water was meant for washing sand off any beachgoers feet but had come in handy for their purposes. After dumping the muddy contents, she turned on the faucet and let the ice-cold water tumble into the bucket while she stretched her back, taking in the sight of the ocean.

  A line of cars snaked from the busy main street that ran through Oyster Bay into the parking lot. Across from the lot were the typical small shops that sprouted up in any coastal town. Ice cream. Saltwater taffy. Antiques. Wetsuit rentals.

  The sidewalk in front of the shops was obscured by cars parked bumper to bumper. In one vehicle, a man sat, his hand draped out the window, smoke curling from a cigarette between his fingers. What stuck out to her was the way he stared across the street at the car wash.

  She couldn’t blame him. They made quite a spectacle, especially Marge in her bikini. However, his expression wasn’t one of passing curiosity nor lasciviousness. It was more the look a scientist might have while peering at a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope.

  Hoisting her bucket to her hip, she returned to her station where she squirted a generous helping of soap into the water. She spared a glance back at the mystery man watching them, and the back of her neck tingled.

  As the next car was moving into position, a commotion happened off to the right where Beatrice had been snoozing. The Potion Masters Society had set up a card table where the potionists would hand the donations collected over to Bea, who would awaken long enough to deposit money in the cash box in front of her.

  However, at the moment, Bea stood on rickety legs, her hands splayed out on the table as her voice creaked out profanities like a sailor. All five feet of her was giving some man a verbal lashing the equivalent of a bout with a heavy-wet boxer.

  The man screamed back, reaching for the money box. Libby sprinted over, followed closely by Marge. Thinking that the man was trying to rob them, Libby kicked out her leg, trying to sweep his feet as she’d seen in movies.

  Unfortunately, he was planted well, and she discovered the move required far more strength in her legs than she possessed. She ended up flat on her back, gasping for air and staring at an azure sky.

  “What’s going on?” Marge demanded. Libby rolled and struggled to her feet. As she did, she caught a strong odor of fish wafting from the man.

  A vein throbbed in his neck as he said, “I came by earlier, made a generous donation—”

  “Of five dollars,” Bea cut in with a snort.

  “—and now, all I’m asking for is that cash back.”

  “Wait,” Libby said, “are you asking for a refund? On a car wash for charity?”

  His eyes were still glued to Beatrice, but a slight inclination of his head indicated he’d heard her. “Not a refund. I just want my five-dollar bill back.”

  His hand shot to his jeans pocket, and Libby tensed before he brought out his wallet. “Look, I’ll trade it out for a different one.” He waved a crisp bill in the ocean breeze like a fluttering leaf.

  “First of all,” Beatrice seethed, “I couldn’t even find your stupid bill amongst all these others—”

  “It’s got a folded corner and a partial rip down the middle.”

  “You’re describing at least a third of the tender in here.”

  Libby cleared her throat and stepped forward. Maybe there was a potion they could throw on the man to disorient him, wipe his memory or something. She shot Marge a pointed look that only resulted in the woman scrunching her eyebrows.

  “Is there a particular reason you need this bill back, Mr…?” Libby said, fishing for his name.

  “Mr. Rogers.”

  She grinned. “Really?”

  His chest heaved with a deep breath, seeming to collect as much patience as he could muster. “Rodney Rogers. And I don’t have to tell you why I want it back. How ‘bout I say it’s for sentimental reasons, and we leave it at that?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Rogers.” She slapped his back and began humming the theme song for Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. When he seemed about ready to explode, she said, “Bea, what would it hurt to try? If you can’t find it, you can’t find it.”

  Marge shuffled around the table and hunched over to help, a bad move if Libby were being honest given her lack of attire. That left Libby to try to placate the man, which she did mostly by smiling awkwardly and commenting on the amiable weather. At the third mention of cloudless sky, Beatrice held up a greenback, asking if it was the one he was looking for.

  “That’s not it.” Rodney’s jaw ticked. “Just let me look for myself.”

  “I can’t let you do that,” Bea snapped. “Look, we went through the whole stack. It’s not here.”

  The clicking of heels over pavement interrupted the brewing storm. “What’s going on?”

  The voice sent an involuntary shiver down Libby’s spine, and her stomach felt like she’d swallowed ice—not unlike that time she had swallowed actual ice and had it lodged in her throat until it melted.

  Marge straightened. “We got this, Stacy.”

  “I see that.”

  The woman’s teased, frizzy hair waved about like a cloud on her head. The slit in her face that served as a mouth twisted into a smile that churned Libby’s stomach all over again.

  “Can I be of any help, sir?” Her voice dripped like sickly sweet honey.

  Behind the real estate agent’s back, Libby made a gagging motion that didn’t go unnoticed by Marge and Beatrice. In no time, Stacy had the man calmed, and, together, the two of them rooted through the stack of five-dollar bills.

  Meanwhile, Libby eyed the string of cars piling up as the other members rushed to keep up with the demand. She was just about to pull Marge away so they could help when Stacy pronounced that the bill wasn’t there.

  Beatrice rolled her eyes. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

  “Maybe you used it someplace else?” Marge suggested to Rodney.

  He chewed his lip, mumbled, “Maybe,” and marched towards his parked car without so much as a thanks.

  An awkward moment followed with the four women silently standing there before the real estate agent raised her chin and waltzed back to the road, heels clicking over wet pavement, where she’d been holding up the carwash sign—a glorified scrap of cardboard covered in an entire craft store’s worth of glitter.

  “Who wears a skirt to a carwash, anyway?” Marge asked.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and she’ll roll her ankle,” Beatrice breathed. Her mouth stretched into a wide yawn as if the entire fiasco had stolen precious minutes from her nap.

  “Ladies, that’s not nice.” Libby crossed her arms. “Think of how much that would hold up traffic. Also, did anyone find that alarming?”

  “What?” Marge asked.

  “That she was helpful without an ulterior motive.”

  “An ulterior motive that we couldn’t see.”

  Beatrice had checked out of the conversation, as evident by the soft snoozing emanating from under the wide brim of her sunhat.

  Meanwhile, Marge had taken to fluffing up her waves of spiky, silver hair, as if that was a bigger beauty concern than the small bits of precious fabric barely covering her goods enough to be considered legal.

  “I guess it’s back to work for us.” Libby held up her bucket, sudsy water sloshing over the side.

  Across the street, the man in the car still had his eyes glued on them with that unnerving expression.

  “Hey, Marge. Who’s that?”

  Turning, the apothecary squinted. “Oh, that’s just Brent Stevens. AWC,” she said, referring to the Anti-Witch Coalition. “He’s probably assigned to watch us for the day, make sure we don’t burn down the town or ca
st spells or whatever nonsense they believe.”

  Marge waved at the man. His face snapped forward at his windshield, his skin reddening. Whatever his reason for being there, he could have used a lesson in being covert.

  Chapter Two

  LIBBY STRETCHED HER back then her arms as the last car drove away. The number of Potion Master Society ladies had dwindled to five. Notably absent was their sign holder and resident antagonist, Stacy.

  Without her, Libby felt like a black presence that sucked all joy from life was gone. But that might have been her bias against the woman.

  “I think my fingertips are going to be permanent raisins.” She shoved said fingers in Marge’s face to prove her point.

  The apothecary recoiled, not out of disgust, but so she could bring them into focus. Within the last half-hour, as the sun had edged nearer to the ocean, the woman had donned a t-shirt and jean shorts. Of course, the shirt was a couple of sizes too small, but at least it covered more real estate.

  “How’d we do, Bea?” Marge probed under the card table, pulled out her suitcase-sized handbag, and retrieved a tube of lipstick from its depths. The contents of the bag clinked with the sound of several glass potion vials.

  “Still counting,” the old lady’s voice floated out from beneath her hat.

  Shelly Crane, a fellow PMS member and bookshop owner, counted the stacks as Beatrice set them down, just to ensure their numbers matched. Every so often, her hand went from the thick wad of ones to pushing her glasses up her nose in what appeared to be a losing battle.

  Her lips pursed as she struggled to extricate two one-dollar bills stuck together. Licking her lips, she moved her fingers towards her mouth.

  “Wait,” Libby said abruptly. “Here, use this.” She handed over her damp sponge. “Who knows where those notes have been.”

  “I heard something on TV about how most money has traces of drugs on it,” Marge threw out.

  After swiping her fingers over the sponge, Shelly separated the two notes only to discover that one was a five-dollar bill.

  Libby craned her head forward. “How about that? It’s that guy’s missing five dollars. Let’s just all agree to pretend we didn’t see it.”