Ghost Mysteries & Sassy Witches (Cozy Mystery Multi-Novel Anthology)

by Неизвестный

  “Perfect,” I said. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I won't be trying on every pair in the place. I'll take these ones and wear them out.”

  “Of course you will,” he said, a wide grin below his bushy white mustache. “I hope you don't mind me asking, but are you two gorgeous redhead ladies related?”

  The woman sitting on the bench behind me turned. We looked into each other's blue eyes. I felt my eyebrows rising with surprise. The stranger and I had the same coloring, the same shape of faces. She was about fifteen years older than me, but I could see why the storeowner pegged us as being related. The woman with the red hair looked almost identical to my mother.

  Without waiting for an answer, the shopkeeper said, “You must be sisters.”

  “I don't have a sister,” I said, still staring at the woman. She was the one who kept catching my eye from across the street.

  The woman smiled. “But you do have an aunt,” she said.

  I answered, “Sure, but my aunt lives in Florida.”

  She gave me a knowing look. “Oh, Zara. That's just what the rest of the Riddle family likes to believe.”

  She knew my name. I folded one leg under me as I turned around to face her without twisting. I reached out and put my hand on her shoulder to make sure she was solid and not a ghost. She was real. Mom? No, it couldn't be.

  “Aunt Zinnia?”

  My mother's younger sister smiled. “In the flesh.”

  The shopkeeper clapped his hands. “How wonderful! A surprise family reunion happening right here in my store. I knew something was afoot, so to speak, when I noticed you were foot twins. Would you two like me to take your picture?”

  I couldn't stop staring at Aunt Zinnia. She looked so much like my mother, who had passed away only five years earlier. I'd seen my aunt for the first time in a decade, at the funeral, and hadn't seen her again since. In the interim, she had grown to look even more like my mother. Looking into those familiar brown eyes was like staring at a ghost.

  Emotions assaulted me. I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, scream, or put my head between my knees and wait for the nausea to pass. Just when I thought I was going to embarrass myself by exploding into a million sobbing pieces, a wave of tranquility washed over me. Suddenly, I knew exactly what to do.

  “Aunt Zinnia,” I said calmly. “You simply must come for dinner at my house on Friday. We will have rack of lamb, and you can meet my daughter. How about seven o'clock? We'll have cocktails at seven and dinner by eight, like civilized people. Will you be bringing a guest?”

  Zinnia turned away from me, leaned forward over her knees, and began lacing up the boots she was trying on. They were a different style from mine, only ankle-height, but they appeared to be the same size. We really were foot twins.

  “Friday works for me,” she said without looking up. “When did you move to Wisteria?”

  I glanced over at the shopkeeper. He was still grinning and staring, but had moved away to allow some privacy.

  I answered, “What makes you think I'm not here on holidays?”

  “You invited me to dinner at your house. I just assumed that your house was here in Wisteria.”

  “Oh, yes. And I do love the sound of that phrase. My house. Mine. I have a feeling I'm going to be working the phrase my house into every conversation I have for the next year.”

  Zinnia laughed. “You're so much like your mother.” She took a breath and sighed, still leaning over her knees and tying her laces. “I miss her so much.”

  I raised my eyebrows. For someone who was missing my mother so much, my one and only aunt hadn't stayed in touch with her sister back when she was still alive.

  However, sitting on a bench in a shoe store was not the place to dig into the intricacies of Riddle family dynamics. As soon as I got her into my house—my house!—I would hit her with both barrels.

  Whatever happened between her and the rest of the family, it hardly mattered anymore. We were both in the same quaint, not-too-big town, and we were family, and we'd be seeing a lot more of each other.

  Was Zinnia the reason I'd been drawn to the shoe store that day? Did my genes contain tracker devices that alerted me to the presence of relatives? Or had it all been a crazy, wild coincidence?

  I borrowed a pen and paper from the friendly storeowner and handed the address to my aunt.

  “Beacon Street,” she said, frowning at the paper. “This address looks familiar. It's not a red house, is it?”

  “As a matter of fact, the house is a gorgeous shade called Wisconsin Barn Red,” I said. In my head echoed a question. How did I know the house was Wisconsin Barn Red? I was no stranger to making up crap on the spot, but usually I had some awareness of it.

  “I know that house,” Zinnia said. “I used to visit someone there, many years ago.”

  “Was it a woman named Winona Vander Zalm?”

  Zinnia's face lit up and then slowly fell as realization dawned on her. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Is Winnie okay? I haven't seen her in ages. Now I can't remember if she sent me a Christmas card last year.” Her pale face grew even more pale, highlighting the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. She looked up at me with sad eyes the same shade of blue as my daughter's.

  “The former homeowner died peacefully,” I said. “Or at least that's what I've been told.”

  “How did she die?”

  I held both of my hands out, palms up. “Beats me. It all happened long before I arrived in town. I only got here on Saturday.”

  “The day before your daughter's sixteenth birthday,” Zinnia said. I detected a trace of suspicion or accusation in her voice.

  “Wow. For a lady I haven't seen in years, you sure keep close tabs on me.” I reached for my wallet, eager to pay for my boots and leave the store. The quaintness was starting to feel claustrophobic.

  Zinnia said plainly, “I have a good memory for dates.”

  “Did you follow me in here?”

  Her face wrinkled in an unpleasant expression. “Of course not. Don't be daft.”

  I looked at the address in her hands and wondered if it wasn't too late to retract my invitation to dinner. There was something very odd about my aunt, and I didn't want it to rub off on my daughter.

  The storeowner clicked away at his computer keyboard and announced the price of my boots.

  Aunt Zinnia piped up, “Andrew, put my niece's boots on my tab, please.” To me, she said, “I know it doesn't make up for missing out on so much of your life so far, but I hope you'll accept this small gift from me. It's the least I can do, considering your kind invitation to dinner.”

  “Uh, sure, but you might change your mind after you taste my cooking on Friday.”

  She grabbed my arm and let out a laugh that can only be described as a cackle. “Zara, darling, I'm sure whatever you whip up, it will be intriguing!” She cackled again.

  I didn't know what had possessed me to promise her something as fancy as rack of lamb, but I would do my best to deliver something intriguing.

  Chapter 7

  “Mom, what possessed you to promise you'd cook someone rack of lamb?”

  Zoey leaned on her elbows on the kitchen island and watched with disgust as I wrestled the meat from its cozy butcher paper packaging.

  “Funny you should mention me being possessed,” I said. “When I invited Aunt Zinnia to come for dinner, it felt like I wasn't even the person inviting her. And before that, my feet pretty much walked themselves into the shoe store. I wasn't in control of myself.”

  Her light red eyebrows arched up in amusement. “How's this different from usual?”

  “Ha ha,” I said. “Two points for the teenager. Good one.” I got the meat free and plopped it on a pan. “Seriously, though, it didn't feel like me talking. And I told her the house was painted Wisconsin Barn Red. When I got home, I googled it, and,” I lowered my voice to a dramatic whisper, “that's what color the house is painted.”

  She frowned. “Dorothy the realtor must have told
you that. It was buried in your subconscious until you needed a fun fact. That happens to me sometimes. For example, honey bees control the temperature inside the hive to determine what job duties their young will do once they mature.”

  “Does it work? What temperature should I program into the thermostat to make you answer the doorbell without being prodded?”

  “Ha ha,” she said. “Two points for the mother.”

  I went back to poking the blob of meat, and she went back to reading fun facts about honey bee colonies.

  After a few minutes, Zoey asked, “If it wasn't you controlling your body, who was it?”

  “Have you ever thought about how objects might hold on to something from their previous owners? Sort of a vibration or energy?”

  Zoey gave me a quick frown as she pushed the groceries aside to make more room for her homework. She was sitting on one of the barstools we had bought earlier that week for the kitchen.

  “Maybe it's the house itself,” I said.

  “Like magic?”

  “Not magic, exactly. Remember that architect I dated briefly? He said all structures cast spells on people, in a way. If you squeeze people through a tight mudroom and then let them pass into an airy, lofted foyer, they stand up straight and feel free to fly, even though they're inside.”

  “That's super strange. I can understand why you only had one date with that guy.”

  “This house has changed us, though. The kitchen is so welcoming that it's bringing us together. I feel closer to you, just because of proximity.”

  Zoey was quiet, probably realizing her mother was right. After less than a week, we were already in a new yet comfortable routine. I would get home from work around the same time she got home from school, and we would meet in the kitchen to catch up on each other's day. Then she would start her homework while I got ambitious with the pots and pans and the cookbooks I'd borrowed from the library.

  “Maybe this house has cast a spell on us,” Zoey said. “But it hasn't literally cast any spells because that's crazy talk. I'm sorry I thought there was a ghost in here. Trust me, I regret putting that idea into your head. Can we just drop all the mumbo jumbo?”

  “I'm not talking about mumbo jumbo. This stuff is real in the same way placebo pills are real enough to help people.” I looked over the array of fresh herbs and groceries. “Or maybe the house has a ghost after all. I think Winona Vander Zalm has become my muse.”

  She studied me carefully. “Are you saying the dead lady who used to live here is making you get up in the middle of the night and burn toast?”

  I dropped my handful of fresh rosemary sprigs. “You know about the sleeptoasting?”

  “You're not exactly quiet when you get up in the middle of the night.” She opened a textbook, read a few paragraphs from one page, and abruptly looked up at me. “Did you say sleeptoasting?”

  “It's not a big deal,” I said casually. “The elevation here is different from back home. My sleep cycle has been disrupted, but I'm sure everything will be back to normal soon.”

  “Not if you're possessed by the ghost of the late Winona Vander Zalm.”

  I stared down at the lump of lamb meat, which looked nothing like the photo in the cookbook. “If I really was possessed, I would know what to do with this thing.”

  “You need little booties. Whenever I see rack of lamb on a cooking show, it's wearing little booties.”

  “Aunt Zinnia will be here in three hours. What else do we have in the fridge in case this doesn't work out?”

  “We've got vegetarian hotdogs in the freezer. Remember we watched that documentary about the meat industry on Tuesday, and on Wednesday we were vegetarian for almost the whole day.”

  “And then on Thursday I declared a ban on documentaries.”

  “And now it's Friday, and you have two hours and fifty-nine minutes to get some little booties onto some part of that meaty monstrosity.”

  I clapped my hands. “Mix your hard-working mother a cocktail. Make it a Manhattan.”

  She gave me a skeptical look, but closed her textbook and began mixing me a drink. When Zoey was twelve, she'd taken an interest in bartending. She didn't drink any of the alcohol, but she loved following the recipe guide and making fancy concoctions as much as I loved tasting them. I drew the line at the drinks that included raw egg whites.

  While she filled the cocktail shaker with ice, I raised both hands in the air dramatically. “Oh, ghostly spirit of Winona Vander Zalm, I need your help!”

  Zoey rolled her eyes and groaned. As usual, this only encouraged me. I began to twitch rhythmically while chanting under my breath. “Winona, I call on you to help me make a rack of lamb. Winona, fill me with your spirit. Oh, wise and ghostly one, close my eyes and open them to another world. Guide me now, you attention-loving, event-hopping, party-throwing, good-looking socialite.”

  My daughter handed me a Manhattan. I took a sip.

  “Perfect,” I said in a snooty voice. “Put this on my tab. It's Vander Zalm, darling.”

  She ignored me and got back to her homework.

  I raised my arms higher and began to moan. “Ghostly one, share with me your wisdom.” A shivery feeling snaked up the backs of my legs, like a cool blanket made of silk.

  Without looking up from her book, Zoey commented, “You could always try reading the recipe.”

  In a flash, it came to me. I knew exactly how to make a rack of lamb, from the marinade to the final grilling. The paper frills—the things Zoey had called booties—were for covering the exposed bones, and they were called manchettes. I knew it all. I must have seen it on TV. All it had taken was a little relaxation to get things rolling.

  Dinner was going to be very intriguing.

  Chapter 8

  Aunt Zinnia arrived at 7:05 pm with a bottle of wine in one hand and a large lamp in the other hand. The lamp had flowers all over the base and even more flowers on the shade. It was also the ugliest lamp I'd ever seen.

  I invited her in. “Are you on your way somewhere after this?”

  “No,” she said.

  “So you walk around with a big lamp for self-defense. Smart. Nobody's going to mess with you when you're packing something that's the perfect size for bludgeoning.”

  Zoey appeared at my side. “Mom and I rate everyday household objects by their bludgeoning capacity. That lamp would score a seven out of ten.”

  Zinnia gave her an amused smile. “What would get a ten?”

  Zoey and I answered in unison, “Pewter candlesticks.”

  “Naturally,” Zinnia said, nodding. “Followed by what? A heavy pipewrench?”

  Zoey sniffed in amusement and explained, “Wrenches are no good. Someone would notice if you left a heavy wrench lying around on your fireplace mantle. You'd lose the element of surprise.”

  Zinnia looked from Zoey to me. “Your daughter is a sharp one.”

  I ruffled Zoey's strawberry-blonde hair. “Sharpest pencil in the pack,” I said proudly. “Time for official introductions. Aunt Zinnia, meet Zolanda Daizy Cazzaundra Riddle, Zoey for short. Since you're my mother's sister, that makes you Zoey's great-aunt, and her your great-niece.”

  Zinnia said, “Just call me Zinnia, or Zinnie, or Auntie Z. No need to call me great until I've done something of greatness to deserve it.” She thrust the floral-printed lamp at us. “Like, for example, giving you a gorgeous housewarming present that scores seven out of ten for bludgeoning.”

  Zoey squealed and took the lamp, hugging it to her chest. “Auntie Z, I love this,” she gushed.

  “It's all yours,” Zinnia said. “I bought your mother a pair of boots, so you get the lamp. It's a family heirloom, a one-of-a-kind.”

  I swung my arm in faux-disappointment. “Aw, shucks,” I said.

  “Give us a hug,” Zinnia said. She waved her hands, and a force stronger than gravity sucked Zoey toward one outstretched arm and me into the other. We squeezed each other in a friendly three-person hug.

  I extricated myself and
suggested Zoey take Zinnia on a tour of our new house.

  “It looks grander than I remember,” Zinnia said.

  “You knew the former owner?” Zoey asked.

  “Not well, I'm afraid. But that's all in the past. I plan to get to know my lovely niece and my equally-lovely grand-niece quite well!”

  Zoey hopped up the stairs. “Come and help me find the perfect place in my room for the new lamp!”

  While they climbed the stairs and toured around the upper floor and the attic, I checked on the food and made the final preparations. The lamb had already marinated in rosemary and herbs. It would take almost no time to cook in my pre-heated oven. Everything had come together as if by magic, and I couldn't wait for our guest of honor to take her first bite.

  We started off with cocktails—Manhattans for the adults and cranberry juice for the minor—while Zoey talked about school and the funny little boy next door whom she'd decided to adopt as a little brother.

  “His name is Corvin?” Zinnia asked. “That's rather an unusual name. I believe it means raven.”

  We were seated in the living room with our drinks and appetizers. I had the wingback recliner, positioned near the doorway so I could run into the kitchen to tend the roast periodically.

  “Corvin even looks like a raven,” Zoey said. “He's got shiny dark hair that's so black, it's practically blue.”

  “Probably a shapeshifter,” Zinnia said with a nod. “He's in the blue house next door? They've got a circle window in the attic. Shapeshifters are drawn to houses with non-rectangular windows.” She crunched on a carrot from the tray of crudités.

  Zoey squealed with laughter. “You're so cool, Auntie Z! It's not fair that I'm only meeting you now. If I'd known you my whole life, I'd be so much more interesting by now.” She looked right at me. “No offense, Mom, but I could have used a few more adult mentors in my life.”

  I held both of my hands up. “Don't blame me, kiddo. Your aunt had some sort of blowup with the rest of the family, and she took off like a leaf in the wind.”