Wisteria Warned

by Angela Pepper

  The mess?

  I surveyed the room. There was a pile of dirt, greenery, and broken pottery in one corner. The cute potted plant that had been growing on Zoey’s windowsill was in bad shape. Next to it was the lamp Aunt Zinnia had given us for a housewarming gift. Alas, the flowered monstrosity had survived the fall and was perfectly intact. Shame.

  “Change back,” Zoey urged the newcomer.

  The large dog gave me a guilty look, and then shifted into the form of a human. Specifically, the human form of a ten-year-old boy.

  “Corvin Moore,” I said.

  He looked up at me slowly, his dark green eyes as big as ever. “You were a ghost,” he said in a monotone, staring at me unwaveringly in that creepy way of his. “I saw you.”

  Zoey lurched forward and punched him on the arm. “Stop saying that, you little jerk. She might be a witch, but she’s not a ghost.”

  Corvin shifted back into dog form and started barking at her. The barks were so loud, I had to clap both hands over my ears.

  Zoey shifted into fox form again, and chased him out of the room and down the stairs. Boa ran after them, fluffy white tail in the air, looking anything but frightened.

  I turned to Ribbons, who’d remained in the room. He looked guilty, but then again, he always looked guilty. It was the beady eyes.

  “I didn’t start it,” he said.

  “What happened in here?”

  “Is it not obvious?” He nodded his scaled head toward the pile of dirt and broken ceramics. “The hellhound knocked over that plant with his big tail. Unlike some of us, he has no control over his tail.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Corvin may be a bucket full of strange, but calling him a hellhound seems cruel.”

  “That is what he is, Zed.”

  “What?”

  “His kind guards the gates between worlds. That is why he was able to see you in spirit form.”

  Corvin wasn’t a wolf shifter? Or even a huge raven, as I’d suspected, based on his name? I connected a few dots. “Does that mean Chet Moore is also a hellhound? He looked like a regular wolf to me.”

  “The boy is adopted,” Ribbons said.

  “Adopted,” I said. “Huh.”

  “Haven’t you noticed how the wolf shifter always seems confused whenever you refer to Corvin as his son?”

  My hands flew to the sides of my face as I gasped. “I thought that was out of embarrassment for the kid’s weirdness.” I gasped again. “Now that you mention it, the hellhound thing makes a lot of sense.” I let go of my face, crossed my arms, and glowered at the wyvern. “It would have been a nice family courtesy if either you or Zoey had mentioned to me that our next-door neighbor is the adoptive father of a hellhound.”

  Ribbons raised his brow ridge. “I would be happy to trade information with you, Zed, if you brought me something besides your tedious stories about the boring customers at your bookstore.”

  “It’s a library, not a bookstore, and you know it.”

  He flipped up his wings. “We must go downstairs immediately.”

  I jerked toward the door in a maternal panic. “Why? Are they fighting dirty? Do I need to break it up?”

  “Let them sort out the pecking order for themselves.” Ribbons flew for the doorway, arced through the hallway, and gripped the balustrade to slide down.

  “What’s the hurry?” I called after him.

  “The Thai food is getting cold.”

  Chapter 6

  SATURDAY

  So the neighbor’s kid was a hellhound. Just when I thought I couldn’t be surprised, I was. Between Kathy and Corvin, that was two big supernatural secrets revealed in a single week. And, as my aunt always said, secrets revealed were trouble unsealed.

  I wondered what trouble would be coming my way.

  Whatever fate had in store for me, I didn’t want it to happen while I was still wearing my housecoat and slippers.

  I cast the usual outfit-locating spell on my closet. I’d been using the spell so regularly, I’d nearly forgotten it was meant for finding pages within books, not clothes in a closet. A modified spell—home brew, as the other witches called it—could be dangerous. My spell seemed stable enough, but I suspected that had more to do with my house’s own magic than with the syntax of my home brew.

  Once, I’d tried the spell on someone else’s closet—Frank’s—and the casting hadn’t gone so well. Instead of spitting out the perfect outfit for Frank to wear for the day, Frank’s closet had twitched and emitted ominous noises. Then one of Frank’s faux-leather belts had slithered off a shelf, hit the floor, and snaked its way across the room, hissing angrily as it hid under his bed. We eventually coaxed the belt back out again, but the its color had changed from white to a sickly purple-brown that didn’t go with any of Frank’s pants.

  That Saturday morning, my home brew spell worked perfectly, as I expected it would within my own house.

  The day’s outfit consisted of a dark blue tank top with a star pattern, a gray pencil skirt, and matching kitten heels.

  “This seems overly dressy for a lazy Saturday,” I said to the closet. I had been expecting a pair of stretchy yoga pants to not do yoga in. The navy top with the gray skirt was so conservative. It looked like something Bentley would approve of.

  As I stood there, wondering what the day had in store for me, the closet burped out a pair of earrings.

  “Thanks,” I said. What else do you say when your closet burps earrings at you?

  I shimmied into the pencil skirt and tank top, then tidied the front of my hair with a couple of bobby pins. If I was picking up on the hint from my house correctly, Bentley would want my help on a case today.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Ding dong,” yelled my daughter from downstairs. “I think it’s Bentley!”

  So much for a lazy Saturday of wearing yoga pants while not doing yoga. Aw, shucks.

  *

  Bentley drove his car, and I sat in the passenger seat. I tried not to stare at him in profile, but I was overwhelmed with curiosity about outward signs of his recent life change. I kept sneaking peeks. His hair was darker—still streaked with gray, but not as much gray as before. His jaw looked wider, more square, and more determined.

  Back at my house, he’d explained that the day’s assignment was a simple nuisance call. It would take a few minutes for us to deal with, then he’d have the rest of the day off. His silver eyes had twinkled as he’d explained that I might get a kick out of this particular call, which was why he’d invited me along. Also, we could go for lunch afterward and discuss “recent events.”

  “Nice weather we’re having,” Bentley commented.

  “What did you expect? It’s the last weekend in July,” I said, feeling a little contrary.

  “And no forest fire smoke. We can all breathe easier now. Those light rain showers we had during the week certainly helped the firefighters.”

  I let out a bark of laughter. “That little spritzing didn’t help nearly as much as a couple of witches on broomsticks,” I said knowingly.

  He broke his focus on the road to give me an eyebrow raise. “Witches on broomsticks,” he repeated. “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “Bentley, would I lie to you?” I waved a hand. “Don’t answer that. I know I used to pull your leg all the time, but not anymore.”

  “You used to steal my donuts, too.”

  “That’s all water under the bridge.” I held up my hand. “I don’t lie to you anymore. I mean, I won’t. My word is my bond.” The air shimmered as my pledge took hold. “Honestly, Bentley, there were witches helping the fire crew put out those forest fires. They flew around doing controlled burns on the mountainside. I saw a demo, week before last. I went flying. On a broomstick. Just like a real witch!”

  “You never told me that.”

  “We were busy with the Greyson case.”

  He returned his attention to the road. We turned onto a quiet street, and parked in front of a cute, multi-story hous
e that was similar to my own, except painted a sun-yellowed white instead of Wisconsin Barn Red.

  “Speaking of the Greyson case,” I said, “did everything get squared away? Did Carrot Greyson and the rest of the family buy the cover story?”

  “What do you think?” His tone was prickly. So much for his big life change improving his sense of humor.

  “I don’t know what to think. That’s why I’m asking you, Detective,” I said, also prickly.

  He turned off the car engine and turned toward me slowly. “I apologize for my brusqueness,” he said.

  “That’s a first,” I said.

  “We’ll have plenty of firsts,” he said. “Everything is different now.”

  “Because we’re brother and sister, sort of? Your maker is my mother. Your head is all clear now, right? You remember Zirconia Riddle?”

  A slow smile spread across his lips. “My head is perfectly clear. Did Zirconia tell you why she wanted to spend so much time with me?” He waggled his dark eyebrows.

  “Ew.” I held up my hand. “Gross. No. And I do not want to hear about any of the weird sex stuff you did with my mom.”

  Patiently, he said, “The reason she wanted to spend time with me was to program me to protect you, Zara. She knew that if you stayed in Wisteria, you would be getting into all sorts of trouble, and she wanted you to have a guardian.” He glanced out the car window at the white house, then back at me. “She made me your bodyguard.”

  I snorted. “Some bodyguard you are.”

  “Are you snorting in reference to the incident in the cafeteria? Do you not recall the fact that I did save your life?”

  “I remember, all right. But I wouldn’t have been in danger in the first place if you hadn’t dragged me into the Greyson investigation.”

  His silver eyes twinkled. “Nobody’s perfect.”

  I tore my gaze away from his handsome face, and looked at the white house. My cheeks were hot and getting hotter now that the car’s air conditioning was off. “We should probably deal with this nuisance call,” I said flatly.

  My door opened from the outside. Bentley was holding it open, his other hand extended to help me step out.

  I whipped my head back to the driver’s side seat. Were there two of him? No. Just one very speedy Bentley. I hadn’t even heard him move.

  Maybe he was right.

  Maybe everything would be different now.

  Chapter 7

  RESIDENCE OF TEMPERANCE KRINKLE

  Our nuisance call was a sweet old widow named Temperance Krinkle. She plied us with cookies and tea, and assured us she wasn’t wasting our time, even though it was becoming more clear by the minute that she definitely was. At least being plied with cookies and tea wasn’t a bad way to waste some time.

  Temperance Krinkle was ninety-three, with a round face, rosy cheeks, and a mass of curly white hair. The lenses on her eyeglasses were different prescriptions, which gave the illusion that one of her green eyes was twice the size of the other. She spoke with a charming English accent, and while she’d lived in Wisteria for eighty years, she spoke of life in her old village with wistful clarity. Sometimes she imagined an alternate life for herself, she said, one in which her mother’s psychic premonitions hadn’t inspired the family to emigrate overseas before the start of World War II.

  Temperance’s mother, Matilda, was always drawing and scribbling in journals like a woman possessed. When the Spanish Civil War began in 1936, Matilda declared that it was a sign; one of her prophecies was coming true. It was time for the family to make a new home in a better place. It took a few years to make arrangements, and then they left England, hoping to make a fresh start in a town that was young in comparison to their old village.

  I became so caught up in the woman’s story, I barely remembered to eat my gingersnaps, which were delicious and homemade. The tea was an herbal blend, which Temperance apologized for, saying she didn’t keep caffeinated tea in the house because it was bad for her nerves. The way she talked about black tea made it sound like the mere presence of caffeinated tea bags in the house might keep her up at night. I didn’t press for details.

  After the woman’s oral history reached her early twenties, and the issue of the family business, she excused herself.

  Bentley murmured, “She says her mother had psychic premonitions. Do you suppose it’s true?”

  “They did leave their village just in the nick of time before it was turned to rubble during the Blitz. If you consider three years just in the nick of time.”

  “I’m not sure I would consider that the nick of time.” He picked up a gingersnap, tapped off the crumbs, then set it back down. “Do you believe in prophecies?”

  I took a big breath before answering, because it was a big question. “If prophecies are real, that would mean we don’t have free will. And I’d rather believe in free will.”

  “So, you choose not to believe in prophecies?” He raised an eyebrow. “Like how some people choose to believe the earth is flat?”

  I blinked rapidly. “Oh, the earth is very flat. Have you not looked around outside? It’s flat, flat, flat. Do you know about the wall?”

  “Yes,” he said dryly. “I’m familiar with the theory that the earth is a flat disc, and Antarctica is an ice wall around the perimeter.”

  In a serious tone, I replied, “The ice wall keeps the boats from sailing off the edge.” I smiled. “Detective, I could carry on this conversation all day. My work at the library brings me into regular contact with all the local crackpots. I’m fully up to date on the popular conspiracies. Do you know about Planet X? Of course you don’t. Nobody does. Because Planet X doesn’t exist.” I winked. “That’s what NASA wants us to believe.”

  “Keep going,” he said. “This is all quite amusing coming from the mouth of a woman who flies around town on a broomstick.”

  That was when Temperance Krinkle returned with more cookies and tea.

  Bentley leaned back and widened his shoulders in the manner of someone forcefully changing the topic of conversation. “Mrs. Krinkle, are you a world traveler?” He gestured to the artwork on the wall. The large pieces of art were neither paintings nor prints, but glued-together jigsaw puzzles depicting great monuments around the world.

  “Not yet, but soon, I should think,” the woman said excitedly in her English accent. “There are so many places I’d rather like to see.” She turned and stroked the nearest puzzle, which showed pyramids, bright and rust-colored against a saturated blue sky. “I expect Egypt shall be first.”

  While she focused on the puzzle, Bentley and I exchanged a look. Egypt shall be first?

  The woman was in her nineties. Most people her age were joking about not buying green bananas, and here she was talking about embarking on a world tour? Aside from the physical demands, international travel wasn’t cheap. I knew you couldn’t judge a book by its cover, but the people I knew who glued jigsaw puzzles together to make art for their walls did not have international travel money.

  “Now, about the issue of the store,” Temperance Krinkle said, returning to the anecdote she’d been telling. “My sister and I did take over the hardware store when our father passed, as it turned out. However, because there was already another hardware store in Wisteria, we decided to turn ours into a haberdashery. That’s an English word, in case you don’t know. It refers to the small items used in sewing, such as buttons, zippers, and thread. All of the little, wee things.” She held her wrinkled hands up, the palms a half inch apart. “Oh, how we both loved the smallest items, my sister and I. But we also had our disagreements, as sisters do. She felt the new store should be called Wisteria Haberdashery, but I told her people around here wouldn’t understand what that meant, and that we should call it Wisteria Notions.” She paused, then asked, “Can you imagine what we did to resolve this dilemma?”

  Bentley answered flatly, “You put up two different signs over the storefront’s two doors, and let people choose.”

  The old woma
n gasped. “How did you know?”

  Bentley glanced over at me, looking mildly embarrassed, then said, “I have an interest in local history.” He’d taken up that interest during the stressful time period after which he’d become suspicious about the strange things happening in Wisteria, but before he had gotten proof he wasn’t simply going crazy.

  Temperance Krinkle smiled. “If you are, indeed, a local historian, then you already know that my sister and I kept both names for many years, until such a time as we had to close, sadly, due to the changing times. People today no longer need notions, because everything comes fully finished from the store. Such a pity. And then, just when an item such as a garment or a shoe is starting to show some character, rather than repairing it, they throw it away and get a new one that is of even lower quality.”

  Bentley gave me a look, as if to ask, Is this exactly as much fun as you hoped it would be?

  I smiled, as if to say, Yes, this is fun. This woman is like a great historical novel begging to be read.

  The old woman went on. “I also have a bit of an interest in history, Detective. In fact, I’ve been learning about genealogy.” She pointed to an old but still humming laptop that sat charging on the sideboard next to a stack of papers and an old-looking, leather-bound book. “I’ve recently connected with a distant cousin who lives overseas, in an English village. His name is Cole, and he has the most wonderful ideas about our family tree.” She giggled and covered her mouth. “But I shouldn’t talk about such things. After all, a family’s secrets are kept hidden for a reason.”

  My gaze lingered on the book, and my fingers twitched. I couldn’t read the tiny words on the spine, but I wanted to grab that book and crack it open. Being a librarian wasn’t something I could turn off completely on the weekend.

  Bentley spoke again, less patiently this time. “Mrs. Krinkle, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to discuss the matter about which you called the police department. Over the phone, you said you knew something about a missing person?”