There were no other Pressmans living in Wisteria, but a little digging in the database revealed that another person had shared Perry's home address at one point. Her name had been Jasmine Pressman at the time, but it was now Jasmine Carter. She had to be Josephine's mother. Her date of birth matched up. Jasmine Carter still lived in Wisteria. Her address as of five years ago had changed from the house to that of an apartment building. Was she still alive? The ghost I'd seen had appeared to be a man, but I'd only seen the spirit for a few seconds before it had climbed up my nostril. It was possible my own Confirmation Bias had led me to the conclusion the spirit was Perry.
I checked the online version of the local newspaper, doing a search for Pressman family members and also Jasmine Carter. There was nothing recent. Another Carter had passed away, but it had been three years ago. Was my ghost the three-years dead grandmother of Josephine Pressman? That would explain the time I scolded “Little Jo" for being absentminded. I read Jewel Carter's obituary.
Jewel Carter lived her whole life in Wisteria and accomplished many things. She was a beloved member of the community and a talented artist, specializing in the mediums of wood carving and watercolors. She did not, however, seem to have any work or life experience in the financial sectors. If Jewel Carter had ghosted her way up my nostril, I'd have spent last night carving bear figurines from driftwood or painting sunflowers. What a pity. I was always meaning to do more arts and crafts.
I read the final line: Jewel Carter is survived by her daughter, Jasmine Carter, and her granddaughter, Josephine Pressman.
A tear came to my eye. Obituaries always hit me hard, especially those of strangers. The best ones make you happy and sad at the same time.
I had a little sniffles-inducing moment where I imagined my own obituary. Zara Riddle is survived by her daughter Zoey and her many grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and loved ones who are too numerous to mention by name. Thinking of my many chubby-cheeked, redheaded descendants made me a touch misty-eyed. I blew my nose and went to the washroom to freshen up. I returned to the computer at the front desk and got back to my investigation.
Inspiration had struck when I was washing my hands in the washroom.
With only half a second's concern for the rules I might be breaking, I picked up the library's phone and called Jasmine Carter, the ex-wife of Perry Pressman and mother of Josephine.
She picked up the phone after one ring.
“Good morning, Ms. Carter,” I said. “How are you?”
“Fine,” she said slowly. “Do I have any books overdue? I'm reading one of those House of Hallows books at the moment, but I should be done in a few days. I always bring the books back right away if I know there's a waiting list.”
“Your account is in good standing. We're just conducting a study at the moment. Do you have a moment to help?”
“Why, of course,” she said, sounding eager and pleased to be asked. This was a woman who appreciated her town's library, and I liked her already.
“Ms. Carter, do you find that our summer hours meet your needs?”
“Well, sometimes I wish the library was open a little later on Thursdays, because that's when I play pickleball at the recreation center. But then again I suppose you can't please everyone, can you?” She laughed lightly. “And I'm always sweaty after pickleball, so I'd want to go straight home most nights.” She laughed self-consciously. “Oh, dear. I'm not helping at all, am I?”
“This is all very good,” I said. “Pickleball sounds like fun.” I'd never heard of pickleball before, but I wasn't lying. It did sound intriguing.
“You'd love it! Pickleball is excellent for all ages.” She went on to explain the rules to me.
After a few minutes of what seemed like a pickleball league recruitment pitch, I interrupted her. “Ms. Carter, your voice sounds so familiar, and not just from the library.”
“Oh?”
“Is it possible we've met recently, say at a memorial?”
“Hmm.” She paused for a moment. I leaned forward on the counter expectantly, gripping the phone tighter.
“Probably not,” she said. “I'm fortunate to have not attended any funerals since my mother passed three years back. Knock wood.” I heard her tapping on something.
I nodded. She hadn't lost a family member or close friend in three years, which was good for her, but a dead end for me.
“Well, thank you so much for your time,” I said.
“That's all you've got? It's not much of a survey. I've done little more than try to recruit you for the pickleball league.”
Now it was my turn to laugh self-consciously. “I suppose it isn't much of a survey. Oh! I've just flipped the paper over and there are a few more questions after all.” I glanced around to make sure my coworkers weren't listening. I spotted Frank over near the library's public computer terminals. He looked up, caught my eye, and winked at me. For some reason, this made me nervous.
I made up a new fake survey question. “Ms. Carter, we're planning to paint the library's exterior. How do you feel about the color blue?”
“Isn't it already blue?”
Floopy doop! I recovered quickly and said, “A lighter shade of blue.”
“That would be fine,” she said. “Blue is nice. Darker, or lighter.”
“And we might change the grassy area to a rock garden and the rock garden to grass.”
She snorted. “I don't see why you'd bother spending money on that when you could add it to the book budget.”
“Right. Actually, the survey question about the rock garden was actually a trick question, because of course we wouldn't do anything so foolish.” I used the back of my hand to wipe the sweat from my brow. Frank was still watching me from across the library, and this fake-survey ruse was getting increasingly complicated to keep up. Now I understood why Zinnia had been so exhausted by having to maintain her illusion disguise.
I asked the woman on the phone, “What sort of books would you like to see more of? Additional copies of our most popular epic fantasy series?”
“Occult,” she said. “Non-fiction.”
My danger sensors flashed yellow lights. Her mention of occult books did nothing to calm down the sweat glands on my forehead. Was she talking about witchcraft? Did this woman know more about me than that I was calling her from the library?
“I'll make a note of that,” I said calmly. “I'm writing your comments right here, on the form. Occult books. Anything specific?”
“Oh, this is so embarrassing. I should tell you, my ex-husband is the one to blame for my interest in such tawdry things. He gave me a book about crystal skulls and aura photography and astral projection, and I've been hooked ever since. But the Wisteria Library carries almost nothing on the topic. Your occult section has a few titles about the Egyptian pyramids, but it's so dry. I've had to get my occult fix at the bookstores, and that can really add up. I try to not be a cheapskate, but years of being married to a penny pincher have had an effect on me.”
I forced a friendly chuckle. Now we were getting somewhere. “I know a man just like that. A real financial wizard. Have you ever had someone in your life, a friend or a family member, cut up your credit cards?”
She squealed. “At least twice! Honestly, my ex-husband truly meant well, but he was so heavy handed.”
“Your ex-husband cut up your credit cards?” The phone felt slippery in my sweating hand. Why did every clue keep pointing to Perry Pressman as my ghost when the man was still alive?”
The woman on the phone said, “He sure did. I swear, our daughter Josephine went the exact opposite direction, just to rebel. The girl is a magician. That's what Perry always said. A magician! If you want to see a dollar disappear, put it in her palm.”
I had to smile. Dollars disappeared in my hand as well. Did that make me a magician in addition to being a witch?
There was a scratchy, light tap on my shoulder. I turned to find a giant spider the size of my hand, hanging in the air.
; I was so shocked, I dropped the phone to the floor. I tried using my magic to fling the spider away, but my powers were still grounded.
Two seconds later, once I started breathing again, I got a better look at the spider. It was made of rubber. A simple Halloween decoration. The giant beast hung in the air next to me, suspended from fishing line. I followed the thin plastic line up and through a series of looped hooks fastened to the ceiling. The line continued all the way to the computer terminals, where Frank grinned back at me. He raised and lowered his hand. The spider made a corresponding jaunt up and down in the air.
I shook my finger at Frank. This was why he'd called me Miss Muffet earlier, referencing the nursery rhyme. The pink-haired prankster must have spent an hour or more prepping this particular gem. He couldn't have looked more pleased.
I grabbed some scissors and cut the line before the spider could seize its next victim.
I picked up the phone and held it to my ear. Jasmine Carter was still talking, unaware of the phone having been dropped.
“Perry was always so fascinated about the intersection between humans and technology, and how the two things might be merged someday in the future. I told him, 'Perry, I hope to God we don't all become robots in my lifetime, because that's not my idea of scientific advancement.' And he told me that saving money was only going to be a concern for people for just a few more years. Once the machines gained human capabilities, they'd be able to do all our menial labor, and we'd all become members of the leisure class. He thought the future looked pretty darn rosy, but if you ask me, people get bored if they don't have anything meaningful to do. I mean, just imagine! Idle hands are the devil's workshop!”
She paused, waiting for a response.
“Devil's workshop,” I said. “That would be a good name for a heavy metal band.”
“I suppose it would be.”
“But speaking of workshops, does your ex-husband do any programming of machines?” I thought of the gears and the wet sounds from my vision. “Or does he ever build things with clockwork parts?”
She didn't answer.
She was quiet so long, I worried I'd gotten too aggressive and lost her.
When she finally answered, her voice sounded weak and brittle. “I told Perry I couldn't live in the same house with anything that was an atrocity to our Lord and Maker. It would be like inviting demons to come inside.”
“You believe in demons?”
“I'm a good Christian woman! Of course I believe in the existence of demons. Without evil, there is no reason for salvation.”
“I guess I never considered that.”
She coughed. “Oh, look at the time. I have to go. Thanks so much for calling me today.”
The line clicked. She was gone.
I hung up the phone and stared at it. Jasmine Carter condemned her husband's interests in combining humans and machines because it was an abomination against God. And yet she was keenly interested in borrowing library books about occult matters. Humans are funny creatures. Simultaneously attracted and repulsed by that which fascinates us.
I stooped down and picked up the spider Frank had scared me with. With its cartoonish fangs, the spider was both ugly and cute at the same time. The spider was just like occult books were to Jasmine Carter—simultaneously attractive and repulsive.
And how about the mysterious Perry Pressman?
Even if he wasn't the new ghost in my life, he was almost certainly up to something.
Something wicked.
Chapter 20
I was staring out the window in a daze, thinking about human-machine hybrids, when my boss, Kathy came by.
She frowned at a stack of titles that had been growing throughout the day. Kathy didn't know it, but our disappearing ink problem hadn't gone away since our trip to see Vincent Wick earlier that week. Several more blanked-out books and magazines had surfaced in the overnight returns. I'd surreptitiously instructed the library's pages to intercept the damaged books and put them into a stack for me, without alerting Kathy. I planned to use my bookwyrm dough to restore the words, and then carry on as though nothing was wrong. The two library pages I'd given the instructions to had done as I'd asked without questioning me.
Kathy patted the stack accusingly. “Who put these books here?”
“Those silly pages,” I said to Kathy with a head shake.
“Is there a problem? More blank pages?”
“Not at all,” I lied. “I told them to clean these books up and get them shelved.” I grabbed the stack with a weary sigh. “If you want something done right, do it yourself.”
“What do you mean, 'clean these books up.' Are they damaged?”
I wrinkled my nose. “Sticky covers, I'm afraid. Someone put a Popsicle through the return slot. Luckily it only dribbled a bit before we caught it.”
“Someone put a Popsicle through the return slot?” Kathy's eyes widened, expanding until they looked bigger than her round glasses lenses. She looked as horrified as if I'd reported someone having return-slotted a picnic basket full of Anthrax and lit firecrackers. “Whoooooo would do such a thing?”
I held the stack of books tightly to my chest and moved toward the alcove where we kept the cleaning supplies. “I don't know who did it, but if I ever catch them, I'll be sure and let you know.”
As I walked away, I heard Kathy muttering about medieval torture devices, and I don't think she was referring to a materials request.
Once I was out of sight of my boss and other coworkers, I reached into the pocket of my voluminous skirt. I pulled out the plastic container, popped off the lid, and drew out the bookwyrm dough.
“Time for us to get to work,” I whispered to the pale green ball of dough. It felt warmer than I expected.
I held the dough up to eye level and asked, “Are you ready to do your job, little guy?”
The bookwyrm dough seemed to wiggle in anticipation in the palm of my hand.
“Did you just wiggle?”
The ball of dough pulsed in my hand, or at least I thought it did. It pulsed again, this time rocking from side to side.
“Okay,” I said. “I did not just imagine that.”
The ball of dough held very still, but it did seem to be emitting a noise.
“What's that, little guy?”
I held it up to my ear, where it made a sound like tee-hee-hee.
Shocked, I held it in front of my eyes again, and asked, “Excuse me, but did you just say tee-hee-hee?”
A tiny slit appeared within the dough, and then two dots above it. If that wasn't a mouth and eyes, I didn't know what was.
Clearly now, its little slit of a mouth moving, it said in a small but clear voice, “Tee-hee-hee.”
I nearly dropped the thing.
“You're alive?” I asked.
It made an undecipherable sound that translated in my head as I dunno.
“If you're alive, how do you feel about being rolled into a snake-shaped log, which I will then roll up and down on these damaged book pages?”
It made a chattering sound that was either a sign of its impending pleasure, or a warning.
The eyes blinked up at me, and its slit of a mouth curved into a smile.
“I'll take that as a yes,” I said.
It made another undecipherable sound I heard as Whee!
With no small amount of trepidation, I sandwiched the ball of animated dough between my hands and gave it a roll. It elongated, just like a ball of dough would. The eyes and mouth were now gone. Had I imagined our conversation? I wasn't in the habit of hallucinating, but lately there had been the visions of gears and machinery, so maybe hallucinating was now part of my life. As a witch, I would have to get used to strange things happening.
I kept rolling the dough until I had a handy-sized log. The dough didn't complain or pulse or wiggle.
There was a big stack of books, so I got to work fixing the pages. All it took was a smooth roll of the bookwyrm dough—which I was now thinking of not as dough
but as the bookwyrm—on one or two pages and the text would reappear throughout the entire tome. The stack itself was eclectic. The titles were a variety of subjects, from children's picture books to photography manuals and infrequently borrowed guides for home improvement projects.
In just a few minutes, I was through half the stack. The strangest part of this process was that the bookwyrm seemed to be growing in size. If someone else had been present in the alcove with me, I almost certainly would have made some very distasteful jokes, given the particular shape of the bookwyrm as well as its propensity to grow under my touch. It would have been stranger to not make such jokes, but I digress.
The bookwyrm's face didn't reappear, nor did it make any more noises. By the time I'd finished repairing the entire stack of books, the bookwyrm appeared to have grown by about fifteen percent. I took out the plastic container I'd been keeping it in, balled the dough up, and plopped it into the open container.
“Thanks for the help, little guy,” I whispered.
The lump grew a single, tiny hole, from which it emitted a cheery whistle.
“Shh,” I said. “Keep it down in there.”
It whistled again, but quieter.
I attempted to put the lid on top, but I couldn't get a seal on the rim. Either the plastic container had shrunk, or the bookwyrm had outgrown its container.
“You chubby little rascal,” I said. “What am I supposed to do now?”
It made the I dunno sound.
“I could chop off a little bit of you.”
It emitted a high pitched chirp of horror, which grew in volume to an alarm warble.
I slapped my hand over the top of the pale green lump, as though clamping my palm over someone's mouth. This worked to muffle the sound.
Soothingly, I said, “Just kidding about the chopping, little buddy. How about you wait right here for me and I'll go ransack the staff kitchen for a nicer home for you? Can you be quiet?”
Wicked Wisteria (Witch Cozy Mystery and Paranormal Romance) (Wisteria Witches Book 2) Page 17
