Wicked Wisteria (Witch Cozy Mystery and Paranormal Romance) (Wisteria Witches Book 2)

by Angela Pepper

  “Ommmmmm,” I said.

  She patted me on the shoulder on her way out of the room. “You'll do great,” she said. “I believe in you.”

  I wanted to tell her I believed in her as well, but she was already floating away, leaving on a wave of gauzy gray water. The room around me dimmed and became soft, as though a gray velvet curtain was being drawn all around me.

  “Ommmmmn.”

  I could feel the dryness of the paper under my fingers and nothing else. The rest of the world was gone. It was just me and my bills.

  And the ghost.

  Hello, I said inside my mind.

  Another hello returned, but it was only my own voice echoing.

  Mr. Finance Wizard?

  Again, the strangely distant echoes.

  The gray curtains drew tighter around me. Something else moved in.

  I slipped away, outside of myself, squeezed out as easily as the first dollop of toothpaste from a brand-new tube.

  Chapter 10

  Wednesday morning, I awoke feeling refreshed and invigorated.

  This was especially surprising considering how early it was. My alarm clock had sounded its cacophonous refrain a full ninety minutes earlier than usual. I sat up, switched off the noise, and looked at the sticky note affixed to the front of my LED clock's face.

  Haircuts today

  Zoey 7:30 a.m.

  Zara 8:00 a.m.

  Beach Hair Shack

  1008 Seahorse Drive

  I ran my hand back through my red locks. Zoey needed a haircut. Had she booked us appointments, changed my alarm clock time, and written this note?

  My hair had been feeling dry and damaged lately, with some of the finer strands around the front splitting into pale forked tongues. Since the move, we hadn't found a new salon yet. This Hair Shack place sounded fun, but something was off. The handwriting on the note was not Zoey's. It appeared to be my own writing, but I had zero recollection of writing the sticky note, let alone phoning a salon and making the appointments.

  This was the work of my ghost. What was Mr. Finance Wizard up to?

  I asked, out loud, “Since when does spending money at a hair salon figure into getting your financial budget figured out? Is this a spend money to save money situation?”

  The ghost didn't answer. My head felt clean and tidy, like a refreshed version of my usual morning head.

  I brushed my teeth and got ready for the day before poking my head into Zoey's room. She was already dressed and drawing in her sketchbook on her bed.

  I asked her, “You know about the hair salon appointments?”

  “You told me last night,” she said.

  I pointed at my chest. “I told you? Me?”

  “Don't you remember?”

  I shook my head. “You must have been talking to the ghost.” I wiggled the sticky note, which I'd affixed to my fingers so I could have the address. “Mr. Finance Wizard must have set this all up.”

  She closed her sketchbook and set it aside. “That wasn't you last night?”

  I fidgeted with my skirt. “You couldn't tell?”

  She frowned. “How strange. We chatted for quite a while. I think we need some sort of code, so I can tell when you aren't being you.”

  I looked down at the note so she wouldn't catch sight of any hurt or worry in my eyes.

  Zoey said, “You could wear a special scarf whenever you're possessed.” She went to her closet and pulled out a pink boa we'd acquired the previous year for Halloween. “Try this one.” She tossed the feathery pink boa at me.

  I draped the pink boa around my shoulders. “Hello, I'm an old man ghost. You can tell by my pink boa.” I pulled it off. “Ta da, I'm your mother again.”

  “Perfect.”

  I looked down at the boa in my hands. “Frank would love this. It matches his hair.”

  “He can't have it. What's mine is mine.” She snatched the boa away and stuffed it back into her closet.

  I made a tsk-tsk sound. “Such an only child thing to say.”

  She stuck her tongue out at me.

  I returned the gesture.

  “Your tongue is pink again.” She reached for my chin and inspected the interior of my mouth. “And your teeth and gums are ninety-nine percent back to normal. You've got a little staining, but people will just think you're a coffee addict.”

  “Speaking of which, if we leave now, we can pick up fresh coffee and scones on our way to this hair shack place.”

  Zoey grabbed her book bag and strapped it on. “You know of a good bakery alone the way?”

  “This is Wisteria,” I said with a know-it-all airiness. “There's always a very fine bakery or two on every block. It's because of all the magic.”

  Zoey snickered. “Perfect impression of Auntie Z.”

  * * *

  We arrived at the Beach Hair Shack, at 1008 Seahorse Drive, five minutes ahead of our first appointment.

  As soon as we saw the place, the name of the salon was no mystery at all. It was in a casual, shack-like building, with a view of the beach. According to the signs on the front door, they specialized in styling hair to look “tousled by the ocean breezes and kissed by the summer sun.”

  Zoey breathed excitedly. “That's exactly the look I've always wanted,” she said.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Really? Bleach streaks and bedhead?”

  The front door, which was a wood-framed screen door, opened with a loud squeak. We found a compact waiting area, and only two styling chairs. Nobody else was there.

  I called out, “Hello?”

  An interior door creaked open, revealing a glimpse of a lofted bed and kitchenette. The salon space was small because the back half was a residence.

  A woman emerged to greet us.

  She was tiny, barely five feet tall. She had the hair of a mermaid, waist-length and wavy, with a variety of colorful hues ranging from burnt sugar to cherry blossom and daffodil yellow. Some strands were braided and fastened with tiny barrettes that resembled swallowtail butterflies. Judging by the pleasant laugh lines around her mouth, she was much older than my aunt, yet she dressed and moved as fluidly as someone in her twenties.

  “Blessed morning to you both,” she said with a bow.

  “And a blessed morning to you,” I replied. “Our first appointment is for seven-thirty and it's about seven-twenty now. We're not too early, are we?”

  “The sun never rises too early,” she said.

  “Right.” I glanced over at Zoey, who looked amused by the eccentric woman. I raised my eyebrows meaningfully. Do you trust this kooky woman with a pair of scissors near your head? Zoey shrugged, which I took to mean yes.

  The hairdresser was silent. Her eyes were closed, and she was pressing her small hands in front of her chest with palms together, as though in prayer. She looked like a butterfly in repose, with her form-fitting catsuit worn underneath a gauzy silk shawl dyed with teal and ocean blue shades.

  I gave Zoey the look again. She shrugged a second time.

  The hairdresser opened her eyes and spoke, her voice like tinkling bells. “My name is Morganna Faire, and you must be the Riddle sisters.”

  Sisters! I grinned. “Close enough for horseshoes and hand grenades.”

  Zoey, always the stickler for accuracy, said, “We're actually mother and daughter.”

  Morganna replied, “A blind man should like to see the difference.” Morganna pointed at Zoey. “Let's take Mom first.”

  I snorted and elbowed my daughter. “Go ahead, Mom. Age before beauty.”

  Zoey's mouth dropped open. She was used to people thinking we were sisters, but this was the first time someone had mistaken her for my mother. It served her right for the growth spurt that had made her catch up to me in height.

  Morganna beckoned Zoey with fluttering fingers. “Come and take a seat on my magical, mystical, twirly chair.” She waved for Zoey to follow her over to one of the two hairdressing stations. The chair looked about sixty years old but freshly upholstere
d in vinyl the color of green sea glass.

  I gave Zoey an enthusiastic shove. “Have fun, Mom. I'll just read magazines, if they have any suitable for teenagers such as myself.”

  Zoey shot me a dirty look as she walked over to the green chair. She didn't see Morganna give me a wink to let me know she knew very well who the mother was.

  While Zoey and Morganna talked about hairstyles and conditioning routines, I settled on a breezy wicker lounge chair near the front door. I glanced around at my surroundings, trying to piece a story together. Mr. Finance Wizard must have sent me here for some reason. If he'd been murdered, like my previous ghost, I could be there to find a clue. What could it be?

  Morganna Faire, the sweet butterfly of a woman who was currently complimenting my daughter's red hair, could be a killer. As I watched her small hands flutter through Zoey's red waves, I shook the idea from my head.

  I turned to look at the wall behind the seating area. It was paneled in old, dry-looking wood, painted a pale verdigris. The wall was charmingly dotted with sea shells and framed photos dating back a number of decades, judging by the hairstyles. I spotted Morganna in several photos. In one, she was cutting a huge ribbon with oversized scissors. The photo had been taken at the opening of the Beach Hair Shack, exactly five decades ago.

  Wow. If Morganna Faire had been twenty-five at the time, that made her seventy-five now. Now I was even more impressed with the woman's vigor. Was there some lesson here that Mr. Finance Wizard wanted me to learn? I was still new to being Spirit Charmed and didn't have all the facts. Zinnia had promised to get me more information soon. But I did know that not all ghosts lingered in the mortal world due to murder—many stuck around for a few years simply to help out the living.

  I guessed that people's reactions to moving on from this world varied wildly, not unlike how people react differently to retirement. Some people love retirement and embrace leisure, whereas other retirees take up leadership roles in service of the community, or get into hobbies that are just as consuming as jobs.

  Only time would tell what sort of ghost Mr. Finance Wizard was. Since I hadn't done anything violent in the past few days, such as electrocuting myself while sleeptoasting, it seemed this recent haunting was entirely benign. The guy had booked me a hair appointment. How sweet was that?

  I scanned my way over to the handwritten signs taped to the front of the small payment counter. There were the usual notes about walk-ins being welcome, a list of the fees for various services, as well as the types of payment accepted. One sign in particular caught my eye:

  Earlybird Special

  Wednesdays before 9:00 a.m.

  Half-price Cuts

  Mystery solved, I thought as I reached for some magazines, smiling to myself.

  The strange ways of Mr. Finance Wizard had been revealed. He'd sent us here to save money on our haircuts. And Morganna's regular rates were less than half of what we paid our former stylist. Today's visit would cost only a quarter of what we used to spend on the upkeep of our lustrous Riddle locks. Keep up the good work, I thought loudly and clearly, hoping the ghost would pick up my message.

  With the morning's mystery solved, I lost myself in the fashion magazines. They were a few months out of date, but most of the fashion trends were still new to me. Having spent the last sixteen years either working two jobs or working while upgrading my skills in school, I hadn't kept up with hemlines or celebrity style. The contradictory nature of fashion never failed to amuse me whenever I did try to get current.

  Since when had people become so obsessed with having skinny calves and large buttocks? Oh, but according to the magazines, the large buttocks were only acceptable on musicians, actresses, and reality TV stars. Regular, non-famous women with curvy posteriors were still herded toward A-line skirts and bikini bottoms with fringe, to minimize their shameful shapeliness. At least until the next magazine I picked up. In this one, regular moms and housewives were hiring professional photographers to take old-fashioned pin-up style pictures, accentuating their womanly curves. I had to smile at the cute retro images of women climbing stepladders while holding vintage watering jugs.

  The static in the air shifted. The squeaky screen door beside me opened with a loud creak, and a woman came in. She went straight to the counter, her back to me. I couldn't see her face, but I recognized her black fedora hat and her designer-label shoulder bag. She was the hipster woman I'd seen at the ice cream cafe on Saturday afternoon—the woman who'd been annoyed by the blank passages in her library book.

  I looked back down at my magazine, trying to mind my own business, but I couldn't focus. My mind was buzzing, my ears alert to the soft scuffing sounds of the woman's shoes on the old wood floor as she shifted from side to side impatiently, waiting to get the hairdresser's attention. Morganna had both hands buried in my daughter's voluminous red hair. She glanced over at the visitor and smiled in recognition, but made no movement toward the counter.

  A minute passed, and still I couldn't take my eyes off the restless visitor. What was she up to? She was the first person who'd been connected to the mystery of the disappearing words, but now three more books had surfaced, all checked out by different and unrelated parties. It seemed unlikely this dark-haired woman was responsible for erasing the library books. Even if she was a witch, she wouldn't cast a spell to erase words and then complain about it to strangers in a sundae shop. It wasn't logical. Then again, Aunt Zinnia was always saying magic had a mind of its own. What if this woman had cast a different spell—one that had unintended side effects?

  I squinted at the back of her and wondered, what are you up to?

  She suddenly whirled to face me. She had a defiant look in her golden brown eyes. When she locked gazes with me, it seemed the wicker chair beneath me gave up, and I was suddenly sinking down, into darkness.

  All the air disappeared.

  The darkness was glistening and wet. The darkness had a thousand eyes, and the darkness was also a tunnel.

  A mouth.

  A terrible, gaping chasm that sucked life and love and hope and people all the way down, down, down. I felt the dampness, the moldy dankness, as the darkness closed around me.

  I was in a dark place, where the walls were slick enough to glisten in the wan light of some window or lamp I couldn't locate. And the walls were moving. Were they breathing? Had I been swallowed whole by some living monstrosity? No, the walls weren't moving as whole parts. Only small segments were moving, shifting around with a rhythm like that of an anthill, or a beehive.

  And then, inside this dark space, I was no longer alone. I could hear two people talking, a mature-sounding woman and another person who was either a man or a woman with a deep, gruff voice.

  The pulsating, slick dark walls thankfully blurred out of focus as I concentrated on the voices.

  The mature woman was saying, “Project Erasure is coming together faster than planned.”

  The gruff person replied grumpily, “Not fast enough.”

  “Patience,” she cooed. “You can't rush things. Look at where rushing acquisitions without preparation has gotten me.” She let out a bitter laugh. “Not to mention letting my emotions lead me right into a trap. I'm such an idiot.”

  The other person didn't argue or offer reassurance. The female continued to laugh bitterly at herself.

  While she laughed, I tried to figure out where I was and what was happening. This dark place had no smell or temperature. It was a void, nothing but blackness, except for these two disembodied voices.

  Except... if I tried pulling back, pulling away from the void, I could see a fringe of golden brown, encircling the darkness.

  Golden brown?

  The last thing I'd seen in the regular world was the brown eyes of the woman who'd walked into the hair shack.

  Ah.

  What's that saying? The eyes are the windows to the soul.

  Now I seemed to be inside this woman's eyes, in the inky darkness of her pupils, or just beyond them, inside h
er head. Was I reading her mind? Did this dark-haired hipster girl have other people inside her head, the way I did when I was hosting a spirit?

  The two people were still in there. The mature woman stopped laughing at herself.

  The gruff voice said, “We're not alone.”

  The woman said, “You told me this was a secure location.”

  I thought they'd sensed my arrival and were about to do something to exorcise me, but then, suddenly, a third voice rang out in the darkness.

  “Leave me alone,” she cried. This voice sounded like that of a young girl.

  The gruff voice chided her. “Young lady, if you're going to mess around with dark magic, you'll have to pay the price. Once the door of your mind is opened, there's no telling what the winds might blow in. You should be thankful to have some powerful intellect inside your silly head for once.”

  The new girl's voice cried, “But I don't want you inside my head. Go away. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy.”

  The mature female said, “Keep telling yourself that, for all the good it will do.”

  The gruff voice chuckled.

  The girl cried, “Dad! Help me! The voices are back.”

  The gruff voice said, “Now, why'd you have to go and invite your father into this? He's busy right now, and he's already so confused. The next time you see your old man, I'm going to make him give you a stern lecture, young lady.”

  The mature female laughed cruelly. “Your father knows you've wasted your life.” To her companion, she said, “I can't wait to get her erased and take full control of this fresh, young body.”

  The gruff voice said, “And I can't wait to see what you do with this fresh, young body.”

  “My first order of business will be a haircut,” the mature female said. “This one's face really needs bangs, don't you think? I got her to book a haircut appointment yesterday, but she lost her nerve and ran out in a panic.”

  The gruff voice said, “And you think I'm the impatient one, D–” He seemed to be saying his companion's name, but was cut off by a wailing voice.