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

by Angela Pepper

  "You were possessed, Mom. I don't know about tongues, but Auntie Z said something about a Witch Tongue."

  "What did I say?"

  "You kept saying toast. Then you went into the kitchen, filled the sink with water, and tried to electrocute yourself."

  The toaster.

  That dirty rotten appliance. It had been in the kitchen when we moved in, quietly pretending to welcome us, even while plotting my murder.

  The ghost was in the toaster. Simple enough.

  And if I'd been electrocuted, that would explain the soreness I had in every muscle, as well as the shakiness in my chest. It also explained my anxiety and agitation, and why I couldn't sit around in my aunt's house and calmly accept this giant bombshell. I'd taken two shocks, one of them physical. My hands didn't show any visible burns, but some of my fingertips were numb.

  "That wicked toaster has to go," I said. "We've discovered the source of evil in our house, and it's a small appliance. The minute we get home, I'm throwing it out, and then we can get back to our normal life."

  "As normal as life can be for two brand-new witches."

  We walked in silence for a block while I digested the information.

  Finally, I admitted, "We are going to make excellent witches."

  "Do you really believe it? Can I start studying spells at home? Or are you just saying that to keep me from running back to Auntie Z right this minute?"

  "Shh," I said.

  Zoey went quiet immediately. That was the power of a librarian's professional-quality shushing. Or was it a librarian power after all? I'd always been good at shushing. Even as a page, my shushing had been unmatched. Had this been my witch powers, seeping through?

  Zoey leaned in and whispered, "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. It's me. And my mom. 'Cause we're both witches."

  I snickered and looked around.

  It was still dawn, too early for most people to be up yet. I had the creepy sensation we were being watched, but all the houses we walked by had dark windows.

  Maybe it was simply the effects of being shocked, but I did sense something different inside myself. A new vitality was coursing through me. It was similar to how I'd felt when I was pregnant—after the morning sickness had passed. I knew I wasn't pregnant, because I hadn't had any wine coolers or other activities in a very long time.

  Was this what it felt like to finally have a word for that sense of being weird, of being different from everyone else? Was this what it felt like to know you were a witch?

  I put my arm around my daughters shoulders and whispered, "My name is Zara Riddle and I'm a witch."

  Zoey giggled. "My name is Zoey Riddle and I'm also a witch." Her voice had risen above a whisper.

  "Shh," I repeated, glancing around the sleeping neighborhood. "We don't want the whole town to know, or they'll be beating a path to our door to get love spells and pimple potion and whatever else it is witches make or do. What do you think witches do?"

  She shrugged, lifting my arm. "I guess we'll find out."

  "We need reference materials. I'll check the library, but they didn't have anything on sleeptoasting, so don't hold your breath. Our occult section is a bit anemic."

  "Was great-grandma a witch?"

  I inhaled sharply. "She must have been! Wow, this explains so much about our family. I wish she was alive so I could talk to her about this."

  "We could ask her ghost," Zoey said.

  A snaky cold feeling shivered up my spine.

  "Let's start with the basics before we hold any séances, okay?"

  "Sure."

  "What are the basics?" I turned to look at her. "You must have been talking to Zinnia for hours while I was unconscious."

  Her lips twisted in a funny half-smile. "The basics are simple things like finding lost objects and influencing a coin flip."

  "That sounds so boring. What about flying?"

  "We're not superheroes. You can't go around flying over people's houses on a broomstick. That's how people get burned at the stake. Most of what we talked about was her warning me to keep my powers hidden from the outside world."

  "They don't burn people at the stake anymore. I'm no lawyer, but I don't think witchcraft is anywhere in the criminal code."

  She stopped walking and faced me, her expression serious. She whispered, "But Auntie Z said there are bad people who will kill others to take their powers."

  I groaned. "This is why we can't have nice things."

  * * *

  My daughter and I turned onto Beacon street just as the lights next door at the Moore residence were coming on.

  The faint scent of peppermint was in the air.

  "Ms. Vander Zalm?" I sniffed the air and patted myself cautiously.

  Zoey narrowed her eyes at me. "Should I be concerned?"

  "Only if you see me with a toaster."

  She stopped on the sidewalk in front of our house. "It's Saturday, so since I don't have school today, maybe we can go check out the beach?"

  "You go inside and get a few hours of sleep," I told her with motherly authority.

  "What about you? You're not going to do something embarrassing, are you?"

  "Probably." I nodded at the blue house. "I'm going to invite the Moores over for brunch today."

  Zoey blinked at me in disbelief. "Brunch?"

  "We moved here to Wisteria for a fresh start, remember? We talked about not being such introvert homebodies anymore. We're going to take tap dancing classes, and see arty movies with subtitles, and watch community theater, and have people over for brunch!"

  "What about the family gift?" She stared at me like I was crazy, and maybe I was.

  "We can handle multiple new things." I shook imaginary pom-poms. "New life in Wisteria. Social activities. Woo hoo!"

  Still bug-eyed, she said, "But we've only just found out about the W-I-you-know-what thing. Isn't that more than enough for our first week?"

  "Today's Saturday, so technically now it's our second week."

  She looked skyward. "I don't know why I even try to argue with you."

  "It's good practice for one day when you're a lawyer." I shooed her toward our front door. "Go in there and climb into bed. I'll zip over to the store and grab a few things. How about eleven? People have brunch at eleven, right?"

  "I'm in high school," she said flatly. "Teenagers don't do brunch."

  "I guess if you wait until noon, it's just called lunch, and you can't drink champagne and orange juice at lunch or people think you're a lush."

  "Are you possessed again? Look me in the eyes and tell me your name."

  With my most snooty voice, I declared, "I'm Winona Vander Zalm, and I throw the most spectacular brunch parties. They're the toast of the town." I snickered. "Get it? The toast of the town."

  She shook her head. "That jolt must have fried your circuits."

  I raised my arms in the air and twirled around. "I feel great! Sure, the whole world smells like singed Barbie dolls, and I pulled a fiercely charred booger out of my nose when you weren't looking, but I feel spectacular!"

  She gave me a sleepy head shake and let herself into our house.

  I ran up to the Moores' front door and knocked out a happy rhythm.

  The eldest member of the family, Don Moore, opened the door the width of one cagey eyeball.

  "Good morning, Grampa Don! I hope you don't mind me calling you that. Your son told me everyone in the neighborhood calls you Grampa Don, and I'm definitely part of the neighborhood now. I'm Zara Riddle. Remember, we met last week when I came over here to chat about your delightful grandson?"

  Within the door crack, Grampa Don's eye narrowed. "Witch," he said. "You're the witch."

  "What makes you say that?" Was it that obvious?

  "You came over here in your black dress, waving a broom." He looked down at the ankle boots I'd liberated from my aunt's house. "And those are witch booties."

  I laughed loudly, leaning forward and slapping my knee. "
Grampa Don, you're quite the jokester."

  He didn't shake my hand or open the door any wider. He turned and yelled, "Chet! Your crazy girlfriend is here!"

  "Girlfriend?" I took a step back. "Grampa Don, you shouldn't call people things like witch or crazy. It's offensive, but not so bad that I won't invite you to brunch."

  "Brunch?" He gave me a sideways look. "You mean like a Grownups Brunch? We haven't had one of those in a long time. Almost a year."

  "Yes. A Grownups Brunch. It's free, and right next door. Come over at eleven, and bring Chet and Corvin."

  He looked over his shoulder again for a moment then said, "Chet must be in the bathroom right now. He's not coming down the stairs. Either he's in the shower, or he doesn't want to see you because he can tell you're—" He cut himself off and muttered, "I shouldn't be rude."

  "Will you come over? I'll be offended if you don't."

  Gruffly, he said, "Will there be bacon?" He licked his lips.

  "Acres of bacon," I promised. "Several kinds."

  "See you there." He nodded curtly and closed the door.

  I sailed down the steps and nearly knocked over a familiar-looking woman.

  "You're up early," she said.

  The woman had one hand on her hip and one hand carrying a wicker basket.

  "Dorothy Tibbits!" I shook her hand. The real estate agent was dressed, as she'd been the previous times I'd met her, in a blue pinafore and sparkling red shoes similar to the ones Judy Garland wore in The Wizard of Oz. She didn't have Toto with her, much to my disappointment. The little dog, a Cairn Terrier, was adorable, and surprisingly cuddly.

  "I didn't expect to see you," Dorothy said.

  "Are you selling another house in the neighborhood?" I looked around her for Open House signs. There weren't any to be seen. She was, however, adjusting the tea towel over her wicker basket, seemingly hiding something.

  "Not yet," she said, using her free hand to twirl one of her dark brown pigtails.

  I leaned over and snuck a peek into the gap between the towel and the basket. She was carrying binoculars.

  "Binoculars? Dorothy Tibbits, you naughty girl, are you stalking someone?"

  "I am a naughty girl!" She let out a high-pitched laugh that startled a flock of brown birds to fly out of the nearby bushes.

  Something inside me urged me to question the woman. It was the same compulsion I'd felt when I'd decided to invite the Moores for brunch.

  Was this the spirit of Winona Vander Zalm pushing me around? Suddenly, I regretted leaving my aunt's house without getting at least a primer on how to deal with possessions.

  "Dorothy Tibbits, what are you up to with those binoculars?"

  "These silly things?" She batted her eyelashes innocently and smiled. Her over-tightened face looked like it might pop something if she smiled any wider. "I use these to inspect roofs without needing to climb a ladder."

  "Why not send up your flying monkeys?"

  Dorothy blinked at me, her eerily smooth face expressionless. If she was feeling any emotion at that moment, the Botox did an admirable job of hiding it.

  "Flying monkeys," I explained. "Like in the Wizard of Oz." I gestured to her blue pinafore dress and sparkling red shoes. "Because of your whole schtick."

  She looked over at my house and then back at me. Skirting the whole issue of flying monkeys and how they might be deployed in a real estate capacity, she said, "I hope you and your daughter are settling in. These old houses can be difficult, the way they're all chopped up into smaller rooms."

  "We do get lost sometimes, but we put those map things on our phones."

  She blinked again. "You get lost? Inside the house?"

  I know when my unique sense of humor is being wasted. I patted her on the shoulder. "It's nice to see you again, Dorothy."

  She nodded. "And I am so glad that you are so pleased with your home purchase. It makes me so happy." She looked right through me. "Zara, if you happen to change your mind, for any reason whatsoever, please don't hesitate to call. I'm, uh, running a new special. If you, er, sell within six months of purchase, there's no sales commission. Zero." Her gaze went to my house and she licked her lips.

  Dorothy Tibbits, you are the world's worst real estate agent, I said to myself. When I'd first toured my house, she'd all but told me not to buy it. And then, when I put in my offer, she literally told me not to buy it. She tried to tempt me with a dozen brand new listings. She'd called the Pocket Listings and sworn that the regular public didn't even know they were available.

  Why had she been dead-set against me buying my lovely red house? Did she know about the ghost?

  "Dorothy, thanks for the offer," I said. "I'll think about it."

  "Call me anytime," she said.

  I thanked her again and excused myself. Then I stopped and turned around.

  "Dorothy, do you know anything about my house being haunted?"

  "What?" She brought her free hand up to her face and covered her mouth. "Oh, no. There haven't been any crimes in that house. It would be on the property disclosure."

  "Not crimes. Just ghosts. Or one ghost, in particular."

  She still had her hand over her mouth, and now the hand was trembling. "I-I-I don't know," she stammered. "I'll have to ask my boss about that."

  "Your boss is an expert on ghosts?"

  She looked up at the sky just as a giant bird soared overhead. The thing was larger than the biggest eagle I'd ever seen. It had to be the same bird I'd seen on Monday, outside the library.

  "Dorothy, do you see that bird? Is that what you're doing with the binoculars? Bird watching?"

  The bird disappeared beyond some tall trees.

  I tore my attention away from the sky and turned to look at Dorothy.

  She had taken off, and was already halfway up the street.

  I called after her, "Dorothy, would you like to come to brunch?"

  She kept going. She was speed-walking so fast, her red sequined shoes kept slipping off her feet. She picked them up and continued walking barefoot.

  Chapter 16

  After hours of food shopping and preparation, I took a moment to admire my centerpiece. It was a bouquet of flowers carved from fresh fruit. Kebab skewers formed the sturdy stems, which sprang from the top of a colorful teapot. I'd used cookie cutters to make flower petal rounds from various melons, and fresh berries for the flower centers. I'd even crushed raspberries to dye the pineapple hearts a lovely pink. The real stars were the blueberry hyacinths.

  I had really outdone myself with my first ever edible arrangement. Best of all, preparing all the brunch food had made me feel calm and centered. There's nothing like working with your hands to let your mind relax, and I really needed it after my whopper of a morning. Not only did my house have a ghost, but the Riddle family tree was—pardon the pun—riddled with witchcraft.

  On some level, I knew I should be worried that spirit of Winona Vander Zalm was infecting me with her socialite desires, but I could also see the positive side of her influence. Before moving to Wisteria, I'd sold off most of my book collection. My to-be-read list had been growing faster than I could read them, and that had always been a source of anxiety to me. It wasn't a huge worry, but it was always there, bugging me.

  I should build more of a social life, I'd told myself. Even introverts need some positive interaction to feel balanced. Besides, I wasn't so sure I was an introvert. My daughter certainly was, and introversion is common among librarians, but I'd never been a typical librarian.

  So, with the goal of becoming more social after the move, I'd declared bankruptcy on my to-be-read pile. I put the books up for sale, converted my heavy stack of stress back to cash, and even saved money on the move. To new, non-fictional adventures, I'd told myself as I cleared away the last stack.

  And then, like the answer to my prayers, a very social and outgoing woman had come into my life. By magic.

  Did it matter that Winona Vander Zalm was dead? She could still be a great mentor.r />
  I smiled and hummed a happy tune to myself as I placed the finishing touch berries on the sweet-smelling centerpiece.

  The doorbell rang again.

  I tilted my face up to the kitchen ceiling. "Doorbell!" I knew Zoey was out of bed because I'd heard floor squeaks from her movements.

  My daughter ever-so-helpfully yelled back, her voice floating down the stairwell, "Mom! Doorbell!"

  I yelled again, "Doorbell!" Did she not remember the conversation about how getting the door was her job?

  The bell rang again.

  She stomped down the stairs and came into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes.

  The doorbell rang again.

  "Doorbell," she said.

  "You think?"

  She finished rubbing her eyes and blinked at the operation that was taking place in the kitchen. The edible bouquet was complete, and I was stirring the contents of three pots on the stove plus four bowls on the kitchen island. Spread out around me was more food than I'd cooked in the past year.

  The doorbell rang again.

  "I'll get the door," she said.

  "Great idea."

  She rolled her eyes as left the kitchen.

  While she got the door, I grabbed a clean bowl and blended my raspberry sauce with fresh whipped cream. I listened, smiling, as she greeted our brunch guests.

  The elder Moore was friendlier to her than he'd been to me. "Call me Grampa Don," he said with a pleasant, grandfatherly tone. "Or even Grampy. I like that. But not Grumpy. I don't like that."

  I heard Corvin whine, "No, Grampy! That's my special name for you! She can't say it."

  "You heard my grandson," Grampa Don said. "That's his name for me, so you can't call me Grampy when he's around." He chuckled good-naturedly then said in a more serious tone, "I was promised there would be acres of bacon. I don't smell any bacon."

  "Absolutely no bacon for my father," Chet said. "He's got to watch his cholesterol."

  The old man retorted, "I'm leaving if there's no bacon. I'll stay only if I can have five slices."