Wisteria Witches (Witch Cozy Mystery and Paranormal Romance)

by Angela Pepper

  “You're amazing,” I cooed.

  He turned the screen to face me. A search on Winona's name had brought up a book about Halloween-themed foods for children, co-written by W. Vander Zalm and Z. Riddle.

  “Very funny,” I said. “You set this up as a prank, didn't you?”

  He pointed to the shelf-location field, nodded, and took off at a speedwalk pace. He returned three minutes later with the book in hand, breathing heavily.

  “It's her,” he said. “And the co-writer is your aunt.”

  I opened the book and flipped to the author photos on the inner flaps. The photos were at least twenty years old, but there was Zinnia staring back at me, looking like my twin. The picture of Winona Vander Zalm was the same one I'd seen before, online accompanying newspaper articles about her fundraising work.

  “Zinnia never told me about this,” I said. “You'd think it would have come up.”

  Frank took the book and looked it over carefully before tapping away at his keyboard some more.

  “She might have been embarrassed,” Frank said. “This was book one of a series, and even though the publisher named upcoming titles, none of them were published. Sales of the first print run were disappointing.” He patted the closed cover. “This specific copy has only been borrowed a dozen times in twice as many years here. It misses the bi-annual purges only because someone checks it out during the culling period.” He tapped the keys again. “And it was always borrowed by Winona Vander Zalm, so now that she's gone, it'll be the end for the book.”

  I grabbed the book and clutched it to my chest. “No!”

  Frank chuckled. “Zara, you can't save them all. Culling day will come, as sure as rain will fall as soon as you've washed your car, and as sure as that page is currently sleeping on her feet.” He tiptoed toward the open door. “Come on. You push her and I'll catch her.”

  I held up my hand, fingers outstretched. “Five more minutes. Let me have a look at this book, and I'll be right out.”

  He disappeared, leaving me with the cookbook.

  It was, sadly, not a book of spells or secret magical rituals. Even the recipes were rather ordinary—the sort you'd find in magazines. Fill a latex glove with red juice to make a bloody hand to float in the punch bowl. Stick toothpicks into coconut balls to make spooky spiders. Got zombies? Make a gelatin-based salad with elbow macaroni in a bowl, then flip it upside down to create a jiggly brain. (Okay, that last one was pretty cool.)

  I continued flipping through the book, stopping when I encountered a page titled KILLER DINNER.

  I froze, my breath caught in my throat. Those were the words on my bathroom mirror. The words that had put Zinnia into such a tizzy.

  Zoey and I had coaxed out a few details about her spell-gone-awry. She'd been attempting to open a portal to communicate with Winona Vander Zalm—real-time communication, and not just the patchy old recorded greetings I'd been channeling.

  Zoey swore on her favorite leggings that she hadn't been the one to finger the message on the mirror, so we'd concluded it was a message from the spirit.

  And now, here I was, perusing a recipe labeled KILLER DINNER. Was this page in front of me a big, honking clue or what? And if it was a clue, how could Winona have known I would find her book today of all days? My brain churned through possibilities and probabilities. Was that smoke in my nostrils? I was thinking too hard. Overthinking, as the kids today might say.

  I gave my head a shake and read the recipe, which was basically just a pot roast with sprigs of herbs jabbed in to make it resemble a porcupine. The accompanying photograph looked an awful lot like roadkill. I grimaced. It wasn't surprising the book's first print run had sold poorly. The audience of cookbook buyers wanting to recreate the look of roadkill is a very niche market.

  One chunk of text near the bottom of the page did catch my eye.

  It read: A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, but your beau will be telling all the guys at work about the fabulous KILLER DINNER you made for him!

  Was this the clue? Was Winona winking at me and telling me her former beau was the one who murdered her? The only boyfriend I knew of, who was still alive, lived next door. Don Moore. He'd claimed to have made the beast with two backs with her.

  On a hunch, I checked the book's index. Nope. It contained no recipe for a Beast With Two Backs, but there was a Beast With Orange Sauce.

  Weren't a significant number of homicides crimes of passion? Did the killer live right next door?

  I licked my lips and said his name out loud. “Don Moore.”

  Nothing happened.

  “Ms. Vander Zalm? Can you hear me? Show me a sign. Let me know if Don Moore was the one who killed you.”

  Nothing happened, and then something did.

  My stomach flip-flopped.

  Either the ghost was naming her killer, or I'd overdone it with the mochas.

  Suddenly, the pain in my guts was overwhelming. I slammed the book shut and ran for the staff washroom.

  What were my guts trying to tell me? Were we all, as Aunt Zinnia had whimpered, going to die?

  Chapter 25

  Around two o'clock, Kathy came to check on me in the staff lounge. I'd used a blanket to build myself a fort in the Grumpy Corner. I was shoeless and curled up in the fetal position.

  Kathy pushed up her round owl-eye glasses and asked, “Whooooo did this to you?”

  “Frank,” I said. “But it's not his fault. I should know my mocha limit. He didn't overserve me, I swear.”

  She reached into the blanket fort and pressed a cool hand on my forehead. The gesture was incredibly motherly and soothing. I liked Kathy. I still felt bad about throwing away her acorn jelly, but at least my diabolical intestinal adventures were finally bringing us together.

  “Zara you're feverish,” she said. “You should go home early. You don't need to finish your shift.”

  “I already punched out my timecard,” I said. “I'm waiting to get up the strength to walk home.”

  She took me by the hand and tugged. “Get up. I'll drive you home. I've got to run some errands anyway. Frank and the page can hold down the fort a bit longer.”

  I groaned and got up. Slowly, I pulled on my coat and used trial-and-error to get my shoes on the corresponding feet. When I was finally ready to leave, I looked up and saw Kathy leafing through the Spooky Gatherings for Ghouls Cookbook.

  “This old book,” she said with a chuckle. “That crazy woman always checked it out during our circulation review. What a kook she was.” She held it up. “Are you checking this out?”

  I told her I'd intended to, and she disappeared to run it through the checkout system officially.

  Five minutes later, I was strapped into Kathy Carmichael's car, which was slightly more luxurious than a broomstick. The brown vinyl seats had been repaired with duct tape, and by the sound the engine made when Kathy started it up, those weren't the only makeshift repairs.

  Kathy gave me an apologetic look. “I can afford a better car, honestly. The library pays me enough. I just like this old thing. It's sort of a nest on wheels.” She waved to the backseat. It contained an array of crafting supplies in stacking plastic containers, as well as loose baskets of twine, fuzzy pipe cleaners, scissors, and what most people would generally refer to as crap.

  “A nest on wheels,” I said. “I can see that.”

  Kathy shifted into gear, and the nest emitted interesting sounds and smells as we began our journey toward my home.

  “Thanks again for inviting me to your wonderful dinner party,” Kathy said.

  “And thank you for coming. I don't know how much longer I'll be in the entertaining mood, but it was great to have everyone I know in Wisteria all in one place at the same time.”

  “By next year, you'll need a bigger house,” she said.

  “You're too kind. If I'm still here in a year, I'll worry about it then.”

  She laughed. “Of course you'll be here! Why would you ever leave? Nobody leaves Wisteria. The o
nly way out is to die.” She turned and shot me a knowing look. “But you don't have to worry about that, now that you have the house. You're living in the Fountain of Youth.”

  “Kathy, this might be my recent dehydration causing auditory hallucinations, but did you just say my house is the Fountain of Youth?”

  “That's what I said. I'm joking, of course. I might be a nutty old bird misses her sons so much that she throws herself into craft projects, but I'm not crazy. Not like old Winona Vander Zalm, with her wild claims about witchcraft and that old house.”

  “What did she say, exactly?”

  We stopped for a red light. The cloud of stench the old car was emitting caught up with us.

  Kathy said, “Ms. Vander Zalm told me once, in confidence, that she was never going to die. Not ever. She said the house had magical energy that protected her and kept her young. She claimed she was a lot older than she looked.”

  “That's so strange,” I said. “Why did she tell you?”

  Kathy shifted gears, and we sailed into fresh air again.

  “She was lonely, I suppose. Or maybe she wanted to boast about it. What's the point in being a hundred and something if you can't tell anyone?”

  “You believed her? You think my house has magic?”

  Kathy laughed. “Who would believe such nonsense? Not me. I believe in research and knowledge.”

  “But there are countless references to Fountains of Youth in literature throughout time. What if it's real? What if there's far more to this world than meets the eye, and fiction is closer to reality than you think?”

  Kathy snorted. “But magical fountains are just an idea. Like the plucky underdog heroine in a young adult novel who battles a mighty monster and singlehandedly wins freedom for her people. Or the handsome man in a romance novel who doesn't notice a woman's stretch marks.”

  I tried to laugh along with her, but the dry sounds coming from my parched throat were less than convincing.

  We reached my house, where Kathy said, “Would you like me to help you inside? Whip up some chicken soup?”

  “Thanks, but you've already done more than enough.”

  “How's that?” She tilted her head and pushed up her round glasses. “Zara, you don't look well at all. If I have to carry you in there and up to bed, so help me, I will.”

  “Nope!” I fumbled blindly for the door handle and cracked the door open. “You've helped more than enough by letting me go home early and giving me a ride.” I jumped out of the car, my legs wobbly and weak but still holding me up. “See you around!”

  “Tomorrow?” Her gaze flitted between me and the house—the Red Witch House.

  I snapped my fingers. “Good idea! I'll see you tomorrow in the big building with all the books.”

  “I'm coming in with you,” she said.

  “Nope!” I flung the car door shut and thumped the roof twice, the way people thump on taxis in movies to send them away.

  To my surprise, it worked. The car immediately sped away. I thought I heard Kathy screaming, but I told myself it was just worn brake pads or old fan belts in the car's engine squealing.

  I stumbled up the stairs to the porch, let myself in, and locked the door behind me.

  Zoey would be home from school soon.

  I grabbed my phone and made a call.

  “It's me,” I said. “I know who murdered Winona Vander Zalm. I also know why, and I've got some ideas about how, but I need your help.”

  Chapter 26

  Saturday

  Five days had passed since the Monday I'd made two important discoveries—the identity of Winona Vander Zalm's killer and my personal limit for number of mochas consumed in one hour. It had been quite an upsetting start to the week. I hadn't been able to even look at a piece of chocolate until Wednesday.

  As for the killer, today was the day my theory would be put to the test.

  Chet and I stood on the sidewalk in front of the nondescript office building.

  He turned to me, his green eyes bedazzling. I'd never imagined that anything other than a rhinestone-applicator could be bedazzling, but Chet's green eyes were exactly that.

  “Zara Riddle, are you ready for this?”

  “Chet Moore, I'm ready for more things than I can even imagine, and I have quite the imagination.”

  He smiled. “I'll take that as a yes.” He took my hand in his. “We should hold hands.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Schmoopsie Bear.”

  He recoiled visibly. I made a mental note that Schmoopsie Bear was too far. It was good to know the man had some limits.

  We walked inside the building, swinging our arms like a couple of lovebirds, and gave our names to the receptionist. She led us down the hall to a meeting room with glass walls. Chet held my hand the whole way. We let go to slide into our seats at the metal-and-glass table. He quickly caught my hand again once we were seated.

  “Darn that glass table,” he said. “You might have to hold my hand forever.”

  “Forever?” I let out a laugh that sounded like a cackle. “How horrible!” My cackle continued, seemingly with a mind of its own. Was that a witch thing? Would I be cackling all the time? Was cackling inevitable, like the pudge you get over the waistline of your jeans on the day of your thirtieth birthday? Life was full of so many inevitabilities.

  The real estate agent, Dorothy Tibbits, came into the room with her pigtails bouncing and a huge grin on her inflated lips

  “You two!” she exclaimed. “Married already? On Thursday? I should have known something was up at your dinner party last week.” She looked right at Chet. “You couldn't take your eyes off Zara all night.”

  I leaned to the side and rested my head on his shoulder. “The man knows what he likes. I told him he could have the milk and eggs and bacon for free, but he insisted on buying the whole farm!”

  Chet squeezed my hand. Hard. “Sweetie-Pie, I did not buy the farm. That's what you say when someone dies.”

  I started to laugh, deliberately snorting to keep myself from cackling. “We can't have that,” I wheezed. “Not until I've taken out a big insurance policy on you.”

  He squeezed my hand again. “One thing at a time,” he said tersely.

  “Right,” I said, nodding. “Let's not waste Dorothy's time.”

  Dorothy Tibbits crossed her legs primly. “What is it I can help you two lovebirds with?” Her posture was stiff, and her breathing was rapid and shallow. “Our receptionist said something about amalgamating your real estate holdings? Selling one house and moving in with each other?”

  “Yes,” Chet said. “But we can't decide which house we should sell, and which one we should keep.”

  Dorothy practically vibrated with excitement. “Well,” she said slowly. “You can let this be an emotional decision, or you can go by the numbers. There are many factors, such as lot size, age of renovations, plus let's not forget about the memories. All the wonderful memories of young Corvin, getting his height measured with those adorable little pen markings on the doorframe.” She batted her eyelashes. “You do mark his height on the doorframe, don't you?”

  “Of course I do,” Chet said, his voice deep and low, bordering on a growl. “I'm a single parent, but I'm not an animal.”

  Dorothy let loose frothy giggles. “Exactly! Which is why I crunched some numbers and I think you'll be better off selling the red house.” In spite of her Botox, she wrinkled her nose with what seemed like considerable effort. “It's getting so old now, and you're coming up on a huge repair bill for a new roof and probably repiping and heaven knows what condition the foundation is in.” She waved one manicured hand. “Why not let the new owner worry about those things?”

  I beamed at her. For such a terrible real estate agent, she was surprisingly convincing today… for some reason. Could it be an ulterior motive?

  “Dorothy, you and I are on the exact same page,” I said. “But my aunt could use some convincing. She's been spouting some mumbo jumbo about the house having magi
cal properties. Have you ever heard such nonsense?” I tilted my head up, caught Aunt Zinnia's eye through the glass walls of the meeting room, and waved for her to come join us. “Here she is now,” I said to Dorothy. “You'll talk to her, won't you?”

  Dorothy stammered, “Uh, y-y-es, I'll certainly, uh, try.”

  Aunt Zinnia rushed in and took a seat, facing me and keeping the back of her shoulder facing the real estate agent.

  “Zara, I've done it,” she said breathlessly, setting a mirrored jewelry box on the glass table. “It's all inside this box, but we have to release it within the next few minutes before everything expires. I've done the calculations, and we won't have another chance again for seven years.”

  I clapped my free hand to my cheek and gasped, “Seven years? And we only have a few minutes? We'd better cast it at once.”

  Chet released my hand, pushed his chair back so hard it toppled over, and stood, towering over me. “Cast what? Don't tell me you're a witch.”

  I shrugged meekly.

  “I married a witch?” Chet shook his head and clenched his fists. “Wisteria! It's this whole damned town! Full of witches!”

  Dorothy had also gotten to her feet. She looked like she was fighting the urge to flee the room. Unfortunately for Dorothy, we were blocking the only exit.

  Her voice shaking, Dorothy said, “Whatever voodoo witchcraft nonsense you're thinking about doing, you'd better not, or you'll be very sorry.”

  Aunt Zinnia turned her head very slowly and gave her a bored look. “Or what, Dorothy? You'll tell the whole town I'm a witch? Honestly, it would be good to get it out there and stop having to hide what I am.” She leaned forward and flicked up the latch on the jewelry box. “Let's get this party started.”

  Dorothy screamed and tried to throw herself on top of the mirrored jewelry box, but she was too slow. The box was open. A puff of purple smoke wafted out, along with a flash of light and a loud crackle.

  I clung to Chet, wrapping myself around his strong shoulder. “It's her,” I cried. “Winona Vander Zalm. And she's coming right for me. She wants to control me. Oh, Chet, I don't know if I'm strong enough for—” I didn't finish. I was falling to the floor. Once down, I shook and spasmed for a full ten seconds before going limp.