3-Book Series Bundle: Wisteria Witches, Wicked Wisteria, Wisteria Wonders - Cozy Witch Mysteries

by Angela Pepper

  Her boots were a different style from mine, only ankle-height, but they appeared to be the same size. We really were foot twins.

  Zinnia cleared her throat. "When did you move to Wisteria? Myself, I adore living here, but most of the country has never heard of the place."

  I glanced over at the shopkeeper. He was still grinning and staring, but had moved himself over to the shop's front counter to give us some privacy.

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

  "You invited me to dinner at your house, which I presume is here in Wisteria."

  "Oh, yes. My house. How I've always loved the sound of that phrase. My house. Mine. I'm going to be working that phrase into every conversation I have for the next year."

  My aunt laughed. "You're so much like your mother. She did love having things that were all her own." She chuckled softly, still leaning over her knees and tying her laces. "I miss her so much."

  I raised my eyebrows. How could you miss someone you never saw in the first place?

  I wanted to press her for more, but sitting on a bench in a shoe store was not the place to dig into the intricacies of Riddle family dynamics. Whatever happened between her and the rest of the family, it hardly mattered anymore.

  By some strange coincidence—and I did believe it was a coincidence—we were both now living in the same town. And we were family. We'd be seeing a lot more of each other.

  I borrowed a pen and paper from the store owner, wrote out my address, and the paper 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." As soon as I'd named the color, a question echoed in my head. How did I know the house was Wisconsin Barn Red?

  "I do know that house," Zinnia said. "I used to visit someone there."

  "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 that reminded me of my daughter's.

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

  Zinnia coughed into her fist. "How did she die?"

  I held both of my hands out, palms up. "Peacefully, in her sleep. Or so I heard. It all happened long before I arrived on the scene. I only got here on Saturday."

  "The day before your daughter's sixteenth birthday," Zinnia said.

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

  Zinnia said plainly, "I have an excellent memory for dates."

  "Did you follow me in here?"

  She wrinkled her nose and frowned. "Of course not. Don't be a ding-dong."

  Don't be a ding-dong? Was she making fun of me through imitation? No. Calling people ding-dongs was something I'd picked up from my mother. It had to be a family trait.

  I looked at the piece of paper in her hands and wondered if it wasn't too late to retract my invitation to dinner. Family has a way of rubbing off on each other, bad habits and all. There was something very odd about my aunt, and I didn't want it to rub off on my daughter.

  The store owner clicked away at his computer keyboard and announced the total for my boots.

  Aunt Zinnia piped up, "Please 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." Had I actually promised to cook? And had the phrase rack of lamb actually come from my lips?

  Aunt Zinnia got to her feet and came at me in a twirl of floral fabrics. She grabbed my arm and let out a laugh that can only be described as a cackle.

  She squeezed my arm. "Zara, darling, I'm sure whatever you whip up, it will be intriguing!"

  She cackled again.

  Just like a witch.

  That was it! That was what my mother used to call her. Zinnia the Witch.

  Chapter 11

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

  Four days had passed since I'd seen Zinnia Riddle and invited her to dinner. I'd been so busy learning the ropes at the library and trying to get the household in order that I hadn't given much thought to the cooking of the meal. My aunt, who my mother always referred to as a crazy witch, was coming to dinner.

  Zoey had taken the news in stride. Her chief concern was over what to call this new relative. She was Zoey's great-aunt, but the woman was only forty-eight, and great-aunt seemed like a title for a much older person. Zinnia was only sixteen years older than me. Other than that, I didn't know much about the woman.

  I finally got the chunk of meat free from its paper wrap. Now what, I wondered.

  Zoey wasn't much help. "Mom, what possessed you to promise you'd cook someone rack of lamb?"

  "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. The words came out of my mouth like I was in a play, reciting lines. 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 gingerly grabbed the meat and plopped it on a pan. "Seriously, though, it didn't feel like me talking. And when we were talking, 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 exactly what color this house is painted. Spooky, huh?"

  She frowned. "I think you're being paranoid. Dorothy the Realtor must have told you the color. It was buried in your subconscious until you needed a fun fact. That happens to me sometimes. For example," she picked up the squeeze bottle of honey on the kitchen island, "honey bees control the temperature inside the hive to affect the development of their young. The smallest change in environment can change their programming, and determine what job duties their young will do once they mature."

  "Does it work on young humans? 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 pulled out her phone to look up more fun facts about honey bee colonies. Zoey was a natural student, always hungry for information about the world around her. We could never finish a trivia game because she'd get distracted looking up facts and history related to a question. When we did play a game, it was usually Scrabble. She was the reigning champion. I knew more words, but she was better at spatial relationships and seeing ways to maximize her score.

  After a few minutes, Zoey looked up from her phone and asked, "If it wasn't you controlling your body, who was it?"

  I'd given it some thought over the week and had a weird theory. "Have you ever heard about how objects might hold on to something from their previous owners? Sort of a vibration or energy?"

  Zoey frowned as she pushed the groceries on the kitchen island aside to make more room for herself. She was sitting on one of the bar stools we had bought earlier that week for the kitchen. She reached for her school bag and started setting books on the counter. It was Friday night, and my daughter was already doing her homework.

  She opened a science textbook to the index page and ra
n her finger down the list. "I don't see anything in here about vibrations," she teased.

  "Well, you're not going to find anything in a science book. But there are things scientists can't explain."

  She stretched, pulled the elastic band from her hair, and began fluffing out her long, red hair. "Like what?"

  "Like how I decided to move to the same small town where my long-lost aunt lives."

  She narrowed her hazel eyes at me. "Chaos theory," she said with relish. "All complex systems rely on an underlying order. The smallest events can cause very complex behaviors or events that appear to be coincidence but are not." She sat up straight on her kitchen stool. "Someone in your family must have spoken favorably about Wisteria. Or else"— she struck her finger in the air—"maybe there's something in your genetics that makes you particularly sensitive to the chemicals given off by blossoming wisteria vines. Neurons that fire together wire together. And so when you heard of a town that was named Wisteria, your body responded with a rush of motivating dopamine. All this happened on a subconscious level."

  I blinked at her. "You're like a wizard."

  She rolled her eyes.

  "Speaking of magic," I said, "maybe it's the house itself that's possessing me."

  "Hmm." She looked skeptical. "Should I be concerned about you levitating in your sleep, or your head spinning around?"

  "Not possession, exactly. Remember the architect who lived in our building? He said that all structures cast spells on people, in a way."

  "Do you mean the bald guy who grew orchids? He went to school to be an architect, but he worked in the accounts receivable department at a shopping mall. He did, however, wear very nice suits. And he had over a hundred pairs of shoes."

  "Now you're making me miss home." I waved a hand. "Anyway, he said that structures have the power to manipulate people. If you squeeze visitors in through a tight mudroom and then let them pass into an airy, lofted foyer, they'll stand up straight and feel like they can fly, even though they're inside. A building can make people feel things."

  Zoey looked around the kitchen. "This place does give me good feelings."

  "Exactly. The kitchen is so welcoming that it's bringing us even closer together. We never hung out together in our old kitchen, because it was like the galley of a small boat. When you sat at the table with homework and I was around the corner in the kitchen, there was always a wall in the way. Maybe that's why I never took an interest in cooking before."

  Zoey was quiet, probably realizing her mother had a point.

  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'd been meeting in the kitchen to catch up on each other's days. She would start her homework while I clanged around with pots and pans.

  "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 the attic when we moved in. Trust me, I regret putting that idea into your head. Can we just drop all the mumbo jumbo?" She patted her science textbook.

  I looked over the array of fresh herbs and unfamiliar groceries I'd picked up on my way home. "Ghost or no ghost, something has changed. I think the home's former owner, Winona Vander Zalm, has become my muse." I picked up a sprig of rosemary and crushed it between my fingertips to bring out the scent.

  My daughter 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 her textbook, read a few paragraphs from one page, and abruptly looked up at me. "Did you say you've been sleeptoasting? As in sleepwalking and then sleeptoasting? That sounds like a disorder."

  "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 pan full 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."

  She twisted her lips from side to side thoughtfully. "You need little white 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 hot dogs 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 mojito. That's white rum, sugar, lime juice, soda water, and mint."

  She gave me an irritated look. "I've known how to make a mojito since I was seven."

  "Please don't use that phrase when we have people over." I snapped my fingers. "Make it a double."

  "I've got homework."

  "It's Friday night," I said. "Homework can wait."

  "I'm nervous about meeting my great-aunt. Homework makes me feel centered."

  I batted my eyelashes at her. "A nice mojito will make your mother feel centered, and she's the one cooking your dinner."

  Zoey let out a weary groan but closed her textbook and began gathering the supplies to mix me a drink.

  When Zoey was twelve, she'd seen the shiny cocktail shakers and fancy glasses in another family's apartment, and had taken an interest in bartending. She didn't drink any of the alcohol, but she loved following the recipe guide and making fancy concoctions straight from a sixties-era book on mixology. I loved tasting her creations, but I drew the line at the drinks that included raw egg whites.

  While she filled our cocktail shaker with ice, I raised both hands in the air dramatically. "Oh, ghostly spirit of Winona Vander Zalm, I'm in way over my head with this rack of lamb. Oh, ghostly spirit, I need your help!"

  Zoey looked mortified, even though there was no one else in the kitchen except the two of us.

  As usual, her mortification 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."

  A breeze blew through the kitchen, seemingly from nowhere. The air turned to liquid peppermint, and my sinuses tingled. I sneezed three times, and then the world seemed brighter and more colorful.

  My daughter handed me a mojito with crushed green leaves swirling between the ice cubes. "That's fresh mint from our backyard," she said.

  "This house really is paradise." 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 went back to her homework. "That mint smell is really overwhelming, don't you think?"

  "That's the ghost." 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."

  "I could, but... I don't need to."

  In a flash, the instructions had come to me. I knew exactly how to make a rack of lamb, from the marinade to the final grilling. I knew that the paper frills—the things Zoey had called booties—were used for covering the exposed rib bones, and they were called manchettes. I knew it all. All it had taken was a little relaxation, in the form of a tas
ty fresh mojito, to get things rolling.

  As I worked, I hummed a tune I'd never heard before.

  I didn't find any of this strange.

  That's the thing about being possessed by a ghost. Sometimes you don't even notice until it's too late.

  Chapter 12

  Aunt Zinnia arrived at 7:05 pm with a bottle of wine in one hand and a large lamp in the other. Seeing her was, once again, like looking at myself in a mirror—if I'd tied my red hair up in a classic librarian bun and gotten dressed in the dark. On her bottom half, she wore a hybrid garment that was neither a skirt nor trousers. It was a skort, green and corduroy, ending around her knees. On her upper half, she wore a voluminous blouse, accented with a fitted vest made out of a floral material that would look right at home on a sofa.

  I try not to judge a book by its cover, but Zinnia's appearance gave off a seriously kooky vibe. For the first time in my life, I finally understood how my daughter felt when she judged my own fashion choices.

  The lamp in her hand had flowers all over the base and even more flowers on the shade. It was so thoroughly ugly that it almost veered toward being cute. Almost.

  I invited her in, eyeing the lamp with suspicion. "Are you on your way somewhere else after this?"

  "No," she said.

  "I guess 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 by the entrance. "Mom and I rate everyday household objects by their bludgeoning capacity. That lamp of yours would score a seven out of ten."

  I watched as my two family members laid eyes on each other for the first time.

  Zinnia gave my daughter an amused smile. "What would score a ten for bludgeoning?"

  Zoey and I answered in unison, "Pewter candlesticks."

  "Naturally," Zinnia said, nodding. "Followed by what? A heavy pipe wrench?"

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