by Iris Kincaid
Zoey left to check out one more store, but just a moment after she exited, the cashier and manager were hot on her heels.
“Stop! Stop!” The cashier yelled. “This woman . . . she’s the one. I saw her looking over that turquoise matched set of necklace and bracelet, and now it’s gone.”
Zoey drew back, affronted. “What are you saying? Are you accusing me of stealing?”
The manager cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I’m afraid that we’re going to have to check your bags, your purse, and your pockets. If we are mistaken, then you’ll have our most heartfelt apologies, and in fact, we’ll go back into the store, and you can have fifty dollars’ worth of free merchandise. Because I would hate to offend a good customer.”
As offended as Zoey genuinely was, the prospect of fifty dollars of free merchandise was a great temptation. Okay, let them see that she hadn’t taken anything. It would be great to go back and get one of the favorite things that she had admired for free. So, grumpily, she opened up her bags and her purse and let the wretched cashier hunt through her pockets.
“Ah, ha. Here it is, just like I thought,” the cashier said.
She triumphantly pulled a pendant and bracelet out of Zoey’s jacket pocket! They were the very same ones that she had been handling and had admired, but she absolutely had not stolen them—would never think of stealing them. Then, in a flash, Zoey realized that the jewelry she had admired so deeply and wanted so badly had followed her and climbed right into her pocket. This was very, very bad. This was not something that could be explained. This was something that could send her back to prison.
*****
When the call came in to the station regarding a shoplifter, Officer Finn Cochran was happy to have other officers handle the matter. Not that he was such a big shot that he couldn’t handle petty thievery and small crimes . . . but he kind of was. After all, he had been an FBI agent for a decade before downsizing his career and joining the Oyster Cove police force.
A surprising number of recent homicides had actually turned it into a rather intriguing job. But shoplifting . . . nah. That was just a notch above paperwork. Until . . . the call came in that three officers had been unable to get one unarmed shoplifter in handcuffs and into the backseat of a police car. Apparently, she wasn’t fighting or scratching or kicking. They even said she was crying. But somehow, they weren’t able to take her into custody. That, Finn had to see.
As he drove up to the scene, he was actually disappointed to recognize Zoey Proctor. Since she had endeared herself to Dr. Svenson and Wanda Macomber, he was hoping she was someone who would prove herself worthy of their loyalty. And here she was, stealing things and breaking parole.
“Ms. Proctor. I was really hoping you would play it smart and keep a low profile. You do realize what this is gonna do for your custody battle?”
Zoey was in tears and not in the mood to speak. Finn turned to the shop’s owner, who quickly explained the incident. Finn turned back to Zoey.
“I never figured you for Sticky Fingers. Please tell me you’re a kleptomaniac. Because stealing fifty dollars’ worth of worthless jewelry is just dumb.”
“Hey!” the owner responded.
“Not worthless. That was entirely the wrong word. Not worth going to jail—that’s the point I was trying to make,” Finn clarified. “So, fellas, exactly why isn’t she in cuffs?”
“We tried. We tried a few times. Locked them on her good and tight. And she got out of them each time. She’s a regular Houdini,” the other cop explained.
Finn sighed. Those fellows were going to have to have their equipment checked. But he knew that his cuffs worked just fine. “Okay, give me your hands,” he ordered Zoey.
Still crying, she put her hands out and flinched when she heard the click when Finn locked the handcuffs. But that was quickly followed by another click, and Zoey sorrowfully pulled her hands free from the now unlocked cuffs.
“How did you do that? No, don’t tell me. I think I can guess,” he said, catching Zoey’s eye meaningfully. “Witch tricks, is it?” he muttered quietly.
Zooey couldn’t have been more surprised. How did he know about witches?
“All right, Sticky Fingers . . . into the car.”
Taking her by the forearm, Finn pulled her toward his car, but just as he reached for the door, he heard the click, indicating that the car had just locked. He tugged at the door, gave Zoey a dirty look, and used his keys to reopen the lock. But one split-second later, before he could pull the door open, click! Finn turned accusingly back to Zoey.
“I won’t go back to jail. I won’t go. Not for something I didn’t do. Never again for something I didn’t do.”
“Didn’t do, eh? You want to tell me how that stuff wound up in your pocket?”
Zoey took a deep breath. If Finn knew about witches, then it was worth a try. “If I think about something too hard or want it too much, it comes to me.”
“Comes to you . . . like how?”
Zoey glanced around and stood close to Finn, blocking everyone else’s view. She focused on the pen in his pocket. Nice pen. She wouldn’t mind having a pen like that. And three seconds later, the pen was in her hand. Now it was Finn’s turn to take a deep breath.
“Not cool. Not cool. Are you saying you can’t control this?”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
Finn strolled over to the owner, who was waiting nearby, and spoke to her for several minutes before returning to Zoey. “She’s willing to drop charges. But stay out of her shop. I would like to add to that. Perhaps you should stay out of all shops. You’ve got too much going on right now to be getting into trouble. No more Sticky Fingers. Got it?”
“Oh, yeah. Got it. Thanks.”
Finn shook his head sternly. He didn’t want her thinking that he was going to be giving her any more breaks. The other transplant witches were very nice young ladies. Most of them had become good friends of his. But this one, the ex-con, this one was going to be trouble.
*****
Store items leaping into her purse was something that absolutely could not be allowed to happen again. Zoey was going to have to get a grip on her unruly, undisciplined mind. Delphine’s suggestion of the meditation class was as good a place to start as any.
It was a yoga studio, and there were meditation classes every afternoon at three PM. Zoey had seen a sign for them during an earlier stroll along the boardwalk. She was expecting a very small, low-key affair. Instead, the atmosphere of the small studio was buzzing with energy and almost as much excitement as The Grand Hotel, and for the same reason—Susan Sidwell and her entourage were in attendance.
It shouldn’t have been surprising that these LA types would have quickly discovered Oyster Cove’s small town New-Age equivalents of their Hollywood lifestyle. And they brought glamour and star appeal with them. Zoey came to understand that there would normally only be about seven or eight students in any given class, but today, there were over thirty. The rumor of Susan Sidwell’s attendance had spread pretty quickly.
Even the meditation instructor seemed a bit giddy and star struck. Normally, her most notable client was the local high school principal. Zoey didn’t know whether she should be disturbed or amused by what a fuss everyone seemed to be making over Susan. What a gilded life that woman led. What a contrast to her own. Susan Sidwell was the very definition of lucky.
Not lucky in a way that denied her talent. Zoey had seen a number of her movies and the woman was impressive. But Zoey had no doubt that there were thousands of Hollywood wannabes who might have done equally fine jobs given the chance in a few of those career-making roles.
Part of luck is being drop-dead gorgeous, and Susan Sidwell certainly was. A lovely thick head of red hair. Was it natural or not? Who cared? It suited her wonderfully. Thick lashes, great cheekbones, dazzling smile. Perfect figure. And somewhere along the line, the right connections, the right auditions, the right place at the right time. She oozed such
a cheery good nature. Even from a distance, it was impossible to truly resent her.
The instructor started the class with a guided exercise. Eventually, they would learn to make their minds blank and to think of nothing. But to begin with, they were going to train their minds to focus on one thing.
“I want you to think of a mango. Think of the weight of it in your hands. Think of the colors of it. How the oranges and the yellows and the greens sort of swirl and blend into one another. It’s probably not a symmetrical mango. Maybe the shape of it reminds you of something else. Maybe yours is ripe. Or maybe it has a few days left before it becomes perfect. Can you smell its lovely fragrance?”
Mangoes never been on the prison menu. They had been one of the multitude of items that Zoey had fantasized about, year after year. They had always been one of her favorite things, and now even the thought of it made her salivate. The meditation instructor placed a gentle hand on Zoey’s shoulder.
“Can you share with the class? Can you tell us what your mango looks like? Can you describe it?”
Zoey sighed happily. “It was delicious. So juicy. I had to lick my fingers and . . . and . . . oh, I’m sorry. Were we not supposed to eat it?”
The entire class started laughing at her. Especially tickled was a member of Susan’s group. He was a tall man, slender but sturdy, with a nice wide, muscular back and a sprinkle of peppery gray in his dark brown hair. And huge dimples that could be spotted a mile away. He caught Zoey’s eye and winked, not wanting her to feel bad about being laughed at. If only he knew. Prison had toughened her for far worse.
After the class was over, that same guy came up to introduce himself. He was Ajax Rafferty, Susan’s manager.
“So, was this your first class?” he asked.
“Yes. I’ve only just moved to town.”
“Really? Same here. I mean, I haven’t exactly moved here. But I’m new to Oyster Cove. What brought you here?”
“My ex was living here with my daughter, and I came here to be close to her.” Zoey’s life was full of so many secrets—prison, witch blood, stabbing—at least she could tell about this part of it without lying.
“So, do you think you’ll be coming back to this class?”
Ajax seemed nervous and eager. Was it Zoey’s imagination, or did he actually want to see her again?
“Excuse me. Is this man bothering you?” It was Susan Sidwell herself, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I know that Ajax is a big fan of mangoes, so that’s probably a pretty important thing to have in common. In fact, if I were a nicer person, I would send him a bushel of mangoes every month. After all, I do owe him my career.”
Ajax shook his head. “I never know if I should be modest and deny that or be smart and take credit. Modesty has not led to a monthly bushel of mangoes, so yes. Yes, I made Susan Sidwell what she is today.”
There was a very nice camaraderie between them, more like brother/sister than romantic. But speaking of brother-sister, they were joined by two other members of Susan’s entourage, Gabriel and Gabrielle Dean, a brother-sister fashion design team. Also, Boris Goulding, Susan’s bodyguard, a dead ringer for Vin Diesel, who looked like he had little patience for meditation, and Susan’s very young assistant, Nikki Holmes. How strange to always be traveling in such a crowd!
“I know you’re probably thinking that I hardly need a bodyguard in a sweet, peaceful, beautiful town like Oyster Cove. But I think of it as vacation for all of my hard-working employees and friends. At least I hope it works out that way for them.
“The truth is, there’s no one to guard me from besides Cory Wyatt, who is the sole paparazzo in town and who can take as many pictures of me as he likes as long as he makes them flattering. And of course, there are the fans, who I don’t want to be kept from—not at all. If they want me to hold their baby or take a selfie, it’s the least I can do for all their support. Oh, good heavens, enough about me. Ajax, we’re going to discreetly wait outside while you get her digits. Zoey, I hope to see you again real soon.”
After the others left, Zoey turned back to Ajax, embarrassed. “I think that she sort of misinterpreted things. I did not assume that you wanted my digits.”
“She actually did not misinterpret anything. We’re going to be here for another few weeks, and I would love to have your digits. For another scintillating discussion of mangoes?”
This was a rather surprising end to meditation class. But then, Zoey’s entire life was becoming one surprise after another.
CHAPTER FOUR
Zoey had been doing her best to avoid telling Justine about the shoplifting incident and confessing what a mess she had made out of things. The more she thought about it, the more she realized she actually couldn’t, not even in the interest of being honest. Finn was somehow hip to the whole witch thing but Justine was not. And she certainly didn’t want her new friend thinking that she was a thief.
Fortunately, Justine’s mind was giddily distracted in another direction. “I found us a house. I mean, that is, if you’ve got some money left.”
“Not enough to buy a house.”
“Fifty-seven hundred dollars will get us a sweet three-bedroom Nantucket-style house. Room for you, room for me, and a room for Camille, real soon, I hope.”
“A three-bedroom house . . . for fifty-seven hundred dollars?” Zoey asked in complete disbelief.
“Check it out. The owner died, and the inheritance went out to a cousin on the West Coast. Must have been set up pretty well where he was to turn his back on this house out here, but he did. The house is paid for, but the taxes have been building up. Which means he lost his right to the house, and anyone who pays up the taxes has legal right to take possession of the house. It’s been available for two weeks, and we need to jump all over this before someone else figures it out.”
It sounded too good to be true, but Justine could plow through thick legal documents like nobody’s business. She understood the legalese, and she could be very determined.
“When can you go see the house?” Justine asked.
It was on a quiet street, about two miles in from the beach. Not prime property, which may have helped it slip under the property development radar. But from across the street, it looked to be in excellent condition. It looked great. It looked perfect.
“Just one little problem,” Justine admitted. “There are squatters, and we have to figure out some way to get rid of them. Even after we pay the taxes, and by we, I mean you, that may not be enough to get them to vacate a place they’ve gotten comfortable in. Maybe we could find a stink bomb.”
“Then we would have to live in a stinky place,” Zoey said. “But maybe they’re reasonable people. Maybe they’re nice people. Maybe . . .”
Zoey was distracted by the sight of a scruffy-looking guy opening the door and chasing a large gray cat out to the yard. He started throwing rocks after it and laughing maniacally. Zoey and Justine exchanged looks.
“What if they were scared out by poltergeists?” Zoey mused.
“That’s your brilliant idea? And you thought stink bomb sounded bad. You got any poltergeists hanging around?”
“Take me to the tax office. Give me a hand with all this tax and property work. And leave the squatters to me,” Zoey said firmly.
Justine’s calculations went off without a hitch. Zoey paid off the taxes and walked off with the deed to the house that very same afternoon. Then all that remained to be accomplished was to rustle up some poltergeists.
Justine stayed back at the motel to update her LinkedIn profile and to apply for a few temp agencies a little further up the coast. Zoey assured her that without breaking any laws, she was going to send the squatters packing.
Sneaking up on the house in the dark, there were a number of different windows that were open to catch the evening breeze, and Zoey could spy through easily. She spotted six young guys lounging in the living room, all in their mid-twenties, watching TV and playing games on their phones.
Time for the polterg
eisting to commence. Zoey spotted the television extension cord and then watched the young men’s reaction as the television flipped off and then back on, and then off, and then back on.
“Seriously! We’re going to get a blackout tonight? There’s not even a storm or anything.”
“Too many people in the neighborhood using too much air-conditioning. It’s a drain on the power.”
Then the light switch went off and then on, and then off and then on.
“This is just weird. It hasn’t happened before, has it? Maybe we should call the power company.”
“Except we’re not supposed to be here.”
“But we pay the power bill. We just sent it in last week. That makes us customers.”
“We are customers—utility customers. We don’t pay rent, and we’re not supposed to be here.”
“We should go over to the neighbors’ and see if they’re having the same problem.”
“Dude! No talking to the neighbors. We are not supposed to be here!”
This wasn’t the reaction Zoey wanted. It was time for some serious paranormal activity. They needed this phenomenon to hit them in the face, so to speak. At which point, all of the throw pillows and cushions in the room flew up and started hitting the room’s occupants in their faces. It was a poltergeist pillow fight. The yells and screams of hysteria erupted in satisfying fashion.
“Who did that? That’s not funny.”
“What’s going on? Are you seeing this?”
A broom sitting in the corner waltzed into the middle of the room and started swatting them on the legs. One of the boys started hyperventilating. Was it wrong for Zoey to be so entertained? Then she remembered the rocks being thrown at that cat. Nah. She wasn’t feeling guilty in the slightest.
Then the furniture that they sat on started leaping up and down in a very jumpy way that could not be mistaken for an earthquake. Not that Oyster Cove got earthquakes. But in a way that could only be explained by ghosts.
“We need to get outta here! Man, just get your stuff and let’s get outta here.”
