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

by Angela Pepper

  I finally rolled over and turned off my buzzing alarm clock.

  A voice down the hall called out, “It's about time.”

  I replied, “And a chirpy good morning to you, too, sunshine.”

  She grumbled back, “Too early for sarcasm.”

  “If it's too early for sarcasm, it's also too early for eye rolling. So, just stop it.” I paused. “Zoey, I can hear your eyes rolling. I can hear them rattling through the walls.”

  She groaned and said something, presumably snarky, muffled by bedclothes.

  I smiled and straightened up for a yawn and a good stretch. I always found it amusing that Zoey and I took turns being the annoying morning person. Sometimes she gave me a hard time in the morning, and other times I enjoyed being the perky one. We didn't have a set schedule for switching back and forth, but it seemed to work out about fifty-fifty.

  I rubbed my eyes and checked the front of my alarm clock. Had my ghost made plans? If he had, he'd been sloppy. Unlike yesterday, there was no sticky note reminding me of any appointments I'd made while under the influence of supernatural forces.

  I got up, showered, put on fresh clothes, and began playing a fresh round of What Did I Do Last Night?

  Downstairs, I found the kitchen looking the way I expected it to be. Zoey had corrected Chet's placement of the plate inside the dishwasher. The dessert wine bottle had been rinsed and put into the glass recycling bin. Both of the wine glasses were next to the sink. Chet must have put the glasses there, not knowing I'd bought the kind with the short stems specifically so they could go in the dishwasher.

  I checked the living room. Exactly what I was expecting to find, I wasn't sure. Claw marks in the sofa, maybe? I snorted at the thought, even as it sent a shiver up my spine. I wondered how we had left things the night before. Had Chet even noticed he was sharing recipe tips with a frugal old man's ghost?

  The coffee maker let out its happy hiss to let me know the morning's first brew was ready.

  Dark, dangerous witch's brew, I thought as I poured a mug.

  Upstairs, the shower was running. Zoey had zipped into the bathroom right after me.

  I brought my mug of coffee up to the bathroom, where I took a seat on the sink counter. Zoey didn't find this unusual or try to kick me out; many of our best conversations had taken place through the opaque shower curtain. We bought a clear shower curtain once, with rubber duckies printed on it, but we soon realized our modesty and the clear shower curtain were driving us apart. Ever since then, only opaque curtains and unlocked doors.

  I started the conversation by getting right to the point. “Apparently, I was possessed again last night,” I said.

  “That's nice,” she said. “Do you think this honey shampoo contains actual honey? I think that would be a bad idea, because honey is sticky, and a person typically uses shampoo to make their hair the exact opposite of sticky.”

  “That shampoo was expensive, so it had better contain whatever we paid for.”

  “Expensive?” The water splashed noisily as she moved around inside the shower. “Are we having money problems?”

  “Why do you ask? Is this about the electric bill? Zoey, I've got things under control.”

  She splashed for a moment. “I was thinking, maybe I could get an after-school job for a while, to help out.”

  “You already have a job, Miss Riddle. Your job is getting good grades at school.” I took a sip of my coffee and turned to look at myself in the vanity mirror next to me. When I saw a haggard witch looking back, I nearly spilled my precious coffee. I looked rough, with dark circles under my eyes. Getting ghost-possessed was evidently the exact opposite of getting extra beauty sleep. I wondered if my aunt's cousin, Beatrizz Riddle, had any beauty tips to counter being Spirit Charmed. Or if she looked twice her age. Perish the thought.

  From inside the shower, Zoey said, “Maybe I could tutor Corvin.”

  “That could work. I guess I could talk to his father about the matter.” I used my elbow to rub a smudge off the mirror. Casually, I asked Zoey, “What time did you get home from the Moore house last night?”

  “Ten o'clock. I was helping Corvin with a science project. His grampa wouldn't let him use the hot glue gun unsupervised. He gave us a whole speech about gun control, and I'm not sure he was entirely joking.” She peeked around the edge of the shower curtain, her eyes crinkled with mirth. “Get it? Hot glue gun? A speech about gun control?”

  “Grampa Don is quite the jokester,” I said.

  She disappeared again behind the curtain.

  I asked casually, “Do you happen to remember what your dear old mother was doing when you got home at ten o'clock?” It had been around nine o'clock that my ghost had made his appearance, so that left a full hour unaccounted for.

  She answered, “When I got home, you were in your bedroom with the door closed.”

  “Alone?”

  “What?”

  “Was I alone? Did you happen to hear Chet's voice?”

  She turned off the shower and snaked her arm out for a towel. She wrapped the towel around herself quickly and yanked the curtain back. “You didn't!”

  I laughed loudly. “Of course not,” I said. “A person would remember something like that. She wouldn't ask her daughter about it in the morning.”

  She used the corner of her towel to wipe some water from her eyes. “Wait. Didn't you say you were possessed last night?”

  “I was, but not until after Chet went home.” Even as I said the words, I questioned myself. Why was I lying to my daughter?

  She regarded me with suspicion. “I checked in on you at eleven o'clock, right before I went to bed,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  “I opened the door, and you were in here, under your covers, but you were alone.”

  I nodded slowly. “Of course I was. That's what I told you.”

  “Exactly,” she said. The water was still streaming down her face from her wet hair. “You didn't sleep with Chet last night.”

  “Not unless he turned into a tiny little French bulldog and was snuggled up next to me where you couldn't see him.”

  She wiped her eyes again. “Mom, you're not nearly as funny first thing in the morning as you think you are.”

  “No one ever is,” I said, shoving my way off the sink counter with a groan.

  * * *

  It wasn't until I got to the bakery later on Thursday morning that I got my first clue about what my ghost had been up to the previous evening.

  I had a craving for croissants, and figured I'd pick up a box to share with my coworkers at the library. It was Wisteria, so I had my choice of bakeries, but I was drawn to the Gingerbread House of Baking. The exterior of the shop was decorated to look exactly like a gingerbread house, with giant, fist-sized candy gumdrops affixed to brown bricks with white swirls that resembled frosting. The decor was all Styrofoam, wood, and other art supplies, but it really makes you look twice and start to drool. I highly recommend a visit, should you find yourself in Wisteria soon.

  Entering the bakery, you want to slow down and take your time. The interior is decorated in a peppermint theme, and all the swirling red and white patterns can make your head swoon if you try to take it all in at once. At Christmas time, when they make their seasonal gingerbread houses, the bakery has lineups down the street. I hadn't experienced that yet myself, but I was looking forward to my first Christmas in Wisteria.

  Inside, the nice young man who owned the bakery took my order of croissants with a smile.

  He boxed them up quickly, fastened the box with a peppermint-striped ribbon, and held out his hand for payment.

  I reached for my credit card and pulled out shards of plastic. I thought perhaps it had gotten brittle and broken on its own, but no. All of my bank cards had been sliced up and then returned to their pocket in my wallet. This had to be the work of Mr. Finance Wizard. At least he'd put the shards back into my wallet so I didn't think I'd been robbed. Even so, I wasn't happy about this
new level of financial meddling.

  The bakery owner began yawning. He'd probably been up since before dawn baking. Or maybe he'd been kept up by the newborn baby that he and his wife affectionately called their gingerbread boy.

  “Oops,” I said, dumping the shards on the counter. “As you can see, last night's budgeting makeover got a little wild and crazy. Do you have a garbage can?”

  “I've been there,” the baker said knowingly, his voice extra deep as he broke into a chuckle. He picked up a bin and we both swept the pieces from the flour-dusted counter into the trash.

  “I guess my next credit card statements will be lighter on ink,” I said.

  “Whatever works,” he said. “My wife used to freeze her credit cards in a block of ice.”

  The bells on the door behind me chimed to announce the arrival of another customer. The baker nodded hello and immediately tensed his posture. His name was Jordan Taub, and he'd served in the armed forces before coming to Wisteria with his new wife the year before to take over the family bakery and start a family. As he stood at attention, his dark brown eyes following the new customer's movements, I could see the military training shine through his casual baker persona.

  The baker tapped one hand on the box of croissants. “So, it'll be cash today?”

  I took the hint to hurry up, and reached for my cash. “Sure. Let's hope I didn't shred my cash last night in my eagerness to balance my accounts or serve myself some sort of lesson about...” I trailed off, staring at the blank rectangles of paper sitting in the compartment where I usually kept my bills. The papers were the exact size and texture of money, yet they contained no ink. I pulled them out to take a closer look. The baker reached out and plucked the money-like paper from my hands.

  He asked, “Did you leave your cash out in the sun?”

  “Looks that way, doesn't it?” I sorted through the handful of bills. They'd been completely erased. Would my bookwyrm be able to restore the ink? I couldn't exactly try that trick in front of Jordan Taub, but I could pop into the washroom.

  The other customer who'd entered the bakery—another man—said, “Those papers look an awful lot like low-denomination bills that have been washed for counterfeiting.”

  I turned to look at this man who considered himself an expert on counterfeiting. It was Detective Bentley, from the Wisteria Police Department, looking as serious and steely-eyed as ever. He wore a dark gray suit that matched his hair, and he looked well rested and ready to nab bad guys.

  “You got me,” I said to Bentley with a laugh. “I'm running a crime ring here in Wisteria.”

  Bentley raised an eyebrow. “I'm listening.”

  “It's a whole thing,” I said, drawing a rainbow shape in the air with one hand. “When I go crime ring, I go all the way. I've got counterfeiting, drugs, houses of ill repute, and even some rum runners. I know rum running hasn't been cool since the end of prohibition, but I'm trying to bring it back.”

  He replied evenly, “Rum running?”

  “Hey! What's going on over there across the street?” I pointed to the window behind Bentley and made a shocked face. “Do you think those guys in the masks, with the big sacks of money just robbed the Credit Union?”

  Detective Bentley whipped around to see where I was pointing. While he was distracted, I folded the erased money in my hands and tucked the wad into my bra. I glanced over at the baker and winked. He didn't make a peep.

  Detective Bentley said, “What sacks of money?” He squinted at the window a moment before turning to face me again. “Ms. Riddle, the Credit Union isn't even on this block. You're up to something.”

  “Just one of my hilariously theatrical pranks,” I said, winking at Bentley.

  I turned to the baker and asked, “How do you feel about bartering?”

  He glanced down at the box of croissants and slid them toward me hesitantly. “Why don't you go ahead and take these, on the house?”

  “Jordan, I'll pay for them the next time I drop in,” I promised.

  “I could start a tab for you.” He scratched his head. “But I can't quite remember your name.”

  Detective Bentley interjected, “She's Zara Riddle.”

  I glanced back over my shoulder and gave the cop a hurt, confused look. Did Bentley actually think I was going to lie to the baker, who I'd been seeing several times a week, just to get out of paying for a box of croissants?

  Jordan stifled a yawn. “Right. I knew it was something starting with a Z. And your sister is Zinnia, right?”

  “Close enough,” I said through a tight smile.

  The baker started writing something on a slip of paper.

  I said, “Why don't you go ahead and put Detective Bentley's order on my tab as well? I'll pay for his donut.”

  Bentley said, “My donut? Is that some sort of wisecrack about me being a cop?”

  I gathered my order and paused to pat Bentley lightly on the bicep. He was all muscle underneath the gray suit. “Not at all,” I said evenly. “Keep up the good work, Detective, and I'll see you around.”

  He looked down at my fingertips on his arm. I removed my hand quickly.

  “Let's hope not,” he said grumpily.

  As I left with my box of croissants, I heard Detective Bentley ordering a donut with rainbow sprinkles.

  Chapter 19

  Frank took one of the croissants and gave me a devilish smile. “Thank you, Miss Muffet.” He waggled his pink eyebrows.

  “Did you call me Miss Muffet?”

  Frank giggled.

  I gave him the same Mom-is-onto-you look I used to give Zoey when she was younger. “What are you up to, Frank Wonder?”

  He used his index finger to make a dimple in one cheek. His innocent look. “You'll see,” he taunted.

  I shuddered and pretended to be terribly worried about whatever prank he had planned. He had no idea that I regularly got possessed by ghosts and that someone or something had sliced up my credit cards and erased my small bills. His prank was way down on my list of things to worry about.

  Before we opened the doors, I took a few minutes to check my bank and credit card statements online.

  My most recent credit purchases were the haircuts at the Beach Hair Shack and last night's sushi takeout. The balance owing was about what I expected. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. I clicked into the security log report and found that I'd been logged in for two hours the previous night, accessing every single one of my banking reports.

  I had no recollection of doing this.

  And two hours was far from normal for me. Typically, whenever I log in to pay my bills, I hold my breath and treat it like a trip to a port-a-potty at an outdoor music festival—in and out before the horror makes me queasy.

  So, what were my ghost and I doing in there last night for two hours? I pulled out the FAQ my aunt had helpfully provided and re-read it.

  Top Five FAQs About Being Spyryt Chyrmed

  1. Who are these Spyryts that some Wytches attract?

  For now, we will only concern ourselves with the Spyryts of humans. These entities of pure energy come from the deceased (usually but not always). They may be recent or ancient. The age of the city you live in will affect the vintage of your Spyryts, since they usually stay within a twenty mile radius of where they died. Most people, when they die, move on to the next plane of existence without lingering. It seems that only those who had some connection to Magyck stick around. Kinda makes you go hmmm about your own future, doesn't it?

  2. What do they want?

  What do we all want? To live a little more! Some Spyryts wish to share their wisdom, spend more time with family and friends, or to see and do things they enjoyed when they were alive. Occasionally, you will encounter an entity seeking justice or vengeance. You must NOT, I repeat, you MUST NOT get involved in these errands, as they will be very annoying, not to mention dangerous. The police will not be sympathetic if you are caught breaking and entering into homes. Claiming that a “ghost made yo
u do it" will only get you a stay in the loony bin. Trust me on this one.

  3. When will they move on?

  When they are good and ready. Some spells can speed up the process. Please consult your Elders before attempting any direct communications with the Spyryts. You don't want to accidentally conjure a portal to a Demon Dymensyon and release Hell on Earth! Nobody likes a Wytch who gets into trouble she can't handle or sets off the Apocalypse.

  4. Where do they go in between their Communions with the Chyrmed?

  My theory is long naps. Stay with me for a minute while I explain. These Spyryts, like some of our respected Elders, experience memory loss and confusion. Without the concrete structure of their bodies, even time loses its linear nature. While their knowledge seems to stay intact, their short-term memory is as slippery as a handful of tadpoles.

  5. How do I make money off being Spyryt Chyrmed?

  There are many ways a modern Wytch can earn a living from her powers, without being burned at the stake! Please email Beatrizz Riddle today (click here!) for more details. It's not Amway.

  Was my “spyryt" just trying to live a little, sharing knowledge?

  I truly hoped he had pure intentions and wasn't getting my information ready for the Nigerian prince to transfer millions of dollars through my account.

  The ghost did have a point about my credit cards. I had too many, and it was hard to track all the balances. But I couldn't live without any banking cards, because carrying cash around wasn't ideal. The clerks at the grocery stores in Wisteria, though friendly, would probably groan if I tried to write checks.

  You win this round, I thought loudly at my ghost. Most of my cards would remain shredded.

  I contacted the bank and ordered a replacement for just two of the cards. Already, I felt the thrill of being more in control of my finances and my future.

  While Frank opened the front doors, I helped myself to one of the flaky, buttery croissants and tried not to worry about what other measures the ghost might have taken.

  * * *

  Once there was a lull in my duties and the quiet of the library was even more pronounced, I skipped my fifteen-minute coffee break and stayed on the computer. Last night's visit to the Pressman residence had only gotten me more intrigued by the family. If Perry Pressman wasn't dead, and his ghost wasn't the one haunting me, who the heck was it?