Dorothy screamed and tried to throw herself on top of the mirrored jewelry box, but she was too slow. The box was open. A puff of purple smoke wafted out, along with a flash of light and a loud crackle.
I clung to Chet, wrapping myself around his strong shoulder. "It's her," I cried, just as we'd rehearsed the night before.
He played his role perfectly, acting awestruck. "Winona?"
"It's really her," I gasped. "And she's coming right for me. She wants to control me. Oh, Chet, I don't know if I'm strong enough for—" I didn't finish. I was falling to the floor. Once down, I shook and spasmed for a full ten seconds before going limp.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dorothy Tibbits edging around the table toward the exit. Zinnia used her magic to slam the door shut and then lock it. Dorothy let out a strangled cry.
Slowly, I gathered myself and got to my feet. With a calm face and an otherworldly tone to my voice, I began to speak.
"Darling, don't leave our meeting yet," I said to Dorothy. "My witch friends have opened a portal to allow me access to the mortal plane one last time. I have some very important business to attend to. I wish to face the person who killed me, to look her in the eyes, and demand an explanation."
I looked right into Dorothy's eyes.
From beside me, Chet said, "Zara, stop this. Enough of your shenanigans. No wife of mine is going to run around casting spells and acting like—" He stopped speaking at the flick of my wrist. With another flick, he was flying back, both arms windmilling. He struck the wall of the boardroom and slid down, his head lolling to one side limply.
"Husbands," I said with disgust. "That's why I, the fabulously single Winona Vander Zalm, refused to get married. I've had plenty of suitors over the past hundred and fifty years, but I knew the price to be paid was too high."
"Winona?" Zinnia took my hand and stroked it. "How wonderful to see you again. What were you saying before that big beefcake interrupted you so rudely?"
I turned again to Dorothy, who was trying to hide under the table despite it being made of glass and rather transparent. I leaned over the table, stared down into her eyes through the glass and growled, "Why'd you do it? I command you to answer me."
"Do what?" Dorothy scrambled backward, putting more space between us but staying under the table. "I don't know what you're talking about," she mewled.
I banged my fist on the table. "Dorothy, stop your mewling!"
She switched from mewling to keening.
I leaned forward and growled, "I didn't cross over from the spirit plane to hear your nonsense. You'll answer my question and you'll answer it honestly, or else!"
A hint of emotion twitched across her face. "Or what? You can't hurt me. You can't hurt someone unless they're attacking you. I may not be a witch, but I know about the rules." She straightened up and gave me a defiant look.
"But I'm not a witch," I said coldly. "I'm the undead. I do whatever I want. Watch this." I pointed at slumped-over Chet and yelled, "Shaazaba!"
His body jerked in apparent pain. Five seconds later, he went still again, with his head tilted up. Bright red blood ran from his mouth, dripping down his neck in gory rivers.
I turned to Dorothy and bent all the way down to the table, so my hot breath fogged the glass between us.
"Dorothy, you're not in Kansas anymore," I said. "It's time for answers. Why did you murder me? Answer now, or I'll turn your insides to blood pudding and your face into a handbag."
She screwed up her face and finally burst out, "It wasn't fair how you had that house all to yourself for all those years! You should have shared it with other people. You were best friends with my mother for all those years and you could have stopped her from dying, but you didn't. Because you were selfish."
"Are you saying I should have had roommates? Is that why you killed me?"
She cried, "It was time for someone else to live in that house. You had your days and you did nothing but throw frivolous parties. You cared more about whatever fancy dress you were going to wear next than you did about other human beings."
"Enough!" I whacked the table with my fist. "I didn't come here to be insulted by the likes of you, murderess. I have questions that need to be answered. The electricity made me lose some of my precious memories. Answer one more question and I'll let you walk out of this room alive."
"Okay," Dorothy said. "I'll tell you anything you want to know. Is it about the gadget?" Her face contorted into a hideous grin.
I made a fist. "Yes. Tell me about the gadget."
"My friend Griebel made it in his shop, but it was all my design." She let out a high-pitched laugh. "You're too stupid to understand, but I'll put it in simple terms. When you brought in your toaster for cord-lengthening, we increased the voltage by adding a second power source, built right into the toaster. The technology available these days is truly remarkable. We added a tiny spy-grade camera, and we also added cheap parts from some dollar-store mousetraps. Using the camera, I was able to spy on you, and when the moment was right, when you were flaunting your immortality by making those wretched Pop Tarts right next to your tub, I pushed my little red button and sent the toaster sailing into the water."
I hissed, "I remember. It grew legs and sprang up on its own."
"Not on its own," Dorothy spat back. "I did it. Me." She thumped her chest. "Stupid little Dorothy Tibbits who had to take the real estate exam three times. I did it. I killed the unkillable."
Beside me, Chet said, "I think we can wrap things up now." He was sitting upright now.
Zinnia patted me on the shoulder. "Good job, Zara."
I glared at her, eyes wide. "There is no Zara. There is only Zuul. Zuuuuuuuul."
She kept patting my shoulder. "I see somebody's a big Ghostbusters fan. Good. A sense of humor is an excellent quality in a witch."
Beneath the table, Dorothy was making spluttering sounds. "Zuul? What? What's going on?" She pointed at Chet. "You're dead. She killed you!"
Chet wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "These movie props taste terrible," he said.
Dorothy gave him a bewildered look and whimpered, "Movie props?"
"Silly Dorothy," I said. "How could I cast a spell on Chet when there's no such thing as witchcraft, or ghosts?" I glanced up at the black camera lenses positioned along the ceiling before turning to Zinnia. "Please tell me all the cameras in this room were recording."
She gave me two thumbs up. "All systems are go," she said. "The police should have an easy job once they get this footage, along with the modified toaster. I have a feeling it will turn up inside Dorothy's house. Confessions are great, but juries love to see physical evidence."
Dorothy made more spluttering sounds, these ones almost joyful. "I threw it out! Ha-hah!"
"Don't be so sure you got rid of it," I said. "You gave the thing legs, and extra power, and somewhere along the way it also got a mind of its own."
Zinnia and I exchanged happy smiles.
I turned toward Chet, ready to kiss him in spite of the fake blood on his face.
He was ready, too.
To shake my hand. "Excellent work, Ms. Riddle," he said. "If it means catching a killer, I'll get fake-married to you any time you want."
Chapter 36
I had a tough time coming down from the high of confronting the murderous Dorothy Tibbits.
Aunt Zinnia drove me home and walked me into the house, where Zoey was doing her Friday night homework all over again to calm herself.
We sat in my living room, which was bright with afternoon sunshine.
Zinnia did most of the talking while we caught my daughter up on that afternoon's events.
We'd left Dorothy in Chet's custody, and his contacts with the city would be arresting and charging her.
Over the next few days, more details would emerge. The toaster would turn up at her house, under some newspapers in her hall closet—almost as though it had scurried its way into the house when she wasn't looking and hidden away until th
e detective on the case came with a search warrant.
The police would find that the man who'd modified the toaster was Griebel Gorman, an odd little man who'd been running an appliance repair shop in Wisteria for as long as anyone could remember. He would claim to be innocent, to not know what Dorothy had planned to do with the appliance, and he would participate with the investigation.
But I didn't know any of that yet, as of that Saturday afternoon. All I knew was that we'd solved the mystery of Winona's death, and that her spirit could now move on to a peaceful place. Or so I hoped.
Chet had warned me that the longer Ms. Vander Zalm stuck around, the more I would pick up on her traits. I'd made some flip comments about learning how to cook properly, but the jokes were to cover my fear of changing. I wasn't perfect, but I wanted to keep being me, Zara Riddle.
"Zara," my aunt said. "Are you feeling normal?"
I had to laugh. "I've never felt normal," I said, smiling. "But I'm okay." I rubbed my sternum and cleared my throat. "Just a little distracted, plus I guess I inhaled a bunch of that pink cloud you made during our big magic show. What was that stuff?"
She wrinkled her nose. "You aren't supposed to inhale pinkwyrm dust."
"Pinkwyrm dust? Is that a monster who causes pink eye?"
She glanced at Zoey and then back at me. "On the contrary. The skin cells they shed can be used to cure conjunctivitis. If you inhaled that cloud, you now have a lifetime immunity from pink eye."
"Wow." I looked over at Zoey, who hunched her shoulders guiltily. "I could have used that back when Zoey was younger. I swear she was attracted to little red-eyed, crusty-faced kids. The teachers could always tell who was about to get sick because Zoey would offer to share her nap pillow with them."
She grumbled, "You're making me sound weird, Mom."
"That's not weird at all," Zinnia said. "Witches are attuned to the needs of others. We are happiest when helping." She looked at me pointedly. "That's probably what drove you to become a librarian."
I nodded slowly. She was probably right. Librarians are driven by a passion for books as well as helping others. You can tell a lot about a society by how many libraries it has. The great author Ray Bradbury knew. He wrote about dark futures without knowledge, and he was quoted as saying, "Without libraries what have we? We have no past and no future."
Zoey made a thoughtful sound and then asked, "Was Ms. Vander Zalm a witch or not? And does this house really have a Fountain of Youth? It sounds great, but I don't know if I want to be sixteen forever."
"This house will keep you young," Zinnia said. "Any house with stairs will keep you running up and down, working your muscles and cardiovascular system." Her eyes twinkled. "But it's not magic. Dorothy Tibbits was mistaken. She thought the house gave Winona her long life, but she was wrong."
"So, she was a witch," Zoey said.
"Not exactly." Zinnia uncrossed her legs and smoothed her rose-patterned skirt. "She came from a bloodline of healers, people who've worked alongside witches since the beginning of time. She had an ability to intuitively understand the human body. Her kind were the early doctors, the kind who could fix inner workings without barbaric scalpels and bloodshed." She looked up at us and quickly added, "Not that I'm some kook who's opposed to modern medicine. I go in for my regular checkups, and I would get treated if I fell ill and wasn't able to cure myself using ancient treatments."
"Like pinkwyrm dust," I said.
She smiled warmly. "To ancient people, the antibiotics that are in common use today would have seemed like magic." She glanced around the living room, stopping on the television. "And our technology would make their heads explode."
Zoey asked, "How old was she, anyway?"
Zinnia's hazel eyes twinkled. "I wouldn't know. It's impolite to ask a lady her age, so I never did. Not even when we worked together on that silly cookbook."
"Do you think I'm a healer? Is that why my magic isn't working?" Zoey's expression was both hopeful and hopeless at the same time. It tore at my heart so much, I had to look away. I grabbed the WPL's copy of Spooky Gatherings for Ghouls Cookbook and leafed through it.
Zinnia and my daughter chatted for a while about powers, and how they could be dormant at times.
After a few minutes, I found my mind drifting.
I pulled myself out of the reclining chair with a groan. "Would you two mind if I went upstairs to have a bath? I thought it might be a nice way to say goodbye to Ms. Vander Zalm."
Zinnia blinked at me. "But she's already gone, dear. Her business is finished."
I pulled my shirt away from my chest. "Then I'll just wash my sweaty body," I said.
She blinked again. "Of course," she said crisply. "You should go have a bath. It would be a nice way to have closure."
"You can stay," I said. "I'm not kicking you out. You're family, so my house is your house. This is a Riddle house."
Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. She blinked them away almost as quickly as they'd started. She started to speak, but all that came out was a soft croaking sound. She mouthed the words thank you.
"We can work on my Witch Tongue lessons," Zoey said with enthusiasm. "If that's okay with you, Auntie Z?" She looked down shyly. "Unless you have other plans."
"My day is yours," Zinnia said. "I'd love a cup of tea."
My daughter ran to the kitchen to put on the kettle.
Zinnia gave me a hug. "I'm so proud of you," she said softly, and as I breathed in the scent of her hair, a memory surfaced.
This memory wasn't one of Winona Vander Zalm's, or any other entity. It was my own. Time folded in on itself, and for a moment, I was hugging another red-haired woman the same height as my aunt. My mother. If I just held on really tightly to my aunt, I could pretend she wasn't gone, hadn't been gone these last five years.
They say our loved ones never truly leave us, and that they live on in our hearts. That's not entirely true. They live on in more than just our hearts. I could smell my mother in my aunt's hair. I could see her in the twinkle of my daughter's eyes. I caught a glimpse of her when I walked by store windows. I still came across handwritten notes that seemed to have been written by my mother's hand.
When I stood on my tiptoes at the kitchen sink to look out the window, I felt myself becoming her, like an echo of an entire life. Like a song that finishes playing but you continue to hear it anyway, the notes patterned within the crashing waves of the ocean or the white noise of a kitchen fan. My mother was gone, and yet she remained, resonating within me and speaking in small ways. She'd been at my side when I saw the house, and I'd felt her approval as I looked around the rooms with my eyes, which were so much like hers. I hadn't needed validation from my friends because I already had all the support I needed. My mother would have approved of the house, as well as the move, and that was how I knew it was right.
The Red Witch House on the corner was now a Riddle house, and sure, it had messy closets and some cardboard boxes that might never get unpacked, and it didn't contain a secret Fountain of Youth, but it was a home, and it was ours, and it was filled with love.
Chapter 37
ONE WEEK LATER
"Zara Riddle, if you're not a witch, how did you know the killer was Dorothy Tibbits? She wasn't even in town at the time of the murder."
I gave the detective my most innocent look. His name was Bentley, like the luxury car company. Detective Bentley. And he was cute, in a silver-fox way. He appeared to be in his forties which was why I'd been trying, unsuccessfully, to set him up with Zinnia.
"First of all, Detective Bentley, witches aren't real," I said.
He nodded slowly, watching me carefully with keen eyes the same steely gray as the hair at his temples.
"Witches aren't real," he agreed. "And neither are ghosts. But Dorothy Tibbits was a believer, which might explain why your theatrical performance with Mr. Moore and the other Ms. Riddle had such a profound effect on her."
"She had some weird ideas," I said. "But are you reall
y surprised, considering the woman walked around town conducting business from a wicker basket?"
"It is odd." He stared at me across the interview room's table without blinking. "But I've come to expect odd things in this town."
"Oh, really? Like what?"
He scratched his cheek and looked down at his laptop's screen. "What was that purple fog that came out of the mirrored jewelry box? It's quite clear from the video footage that something smoky did come out of the box. I've been asking around at the local magic shops, all two of them, and nobody can identify that particular prop."
"You should ask my aunt," I said. "You could take her for a drink sometime. She's a lot more fun after a glass of wine, or seven."
"Most people are," he said flatly. "Never mind about the purple smoke then." He glanced around the Wisteria Police Department's interview room, narrowing his at the ceiling-mounted camera. "Walk me through how you knew it was Dorothy."
"At first, I thought she was just a terrible real estate agent. When I first came to look at the house, she had the Open House signs pointing the wrong way, all the lights off, and boxes of debris blocking the doorway."
Detective Bentley nodded. "Not everyone strives for excellence in their job." He stopped talking, and I heard his silent addition of the way I do. Bentley was a striver, and he was, from what I'd observed over the past week, very thorough. If we did cross paths again, I'd have to be careful to keep my powers hidden.
"I toured the house anyway, and I fell in love, but the more eager I got, the stranger Dorothy acted. She insisted I have a look at her own house, which was also for sale, before I made an offer. She all but begged me to buy any other house instead, but I downloaded a standard offer-to-purchase and registered it with her office. She had no choice but to present it to the estate executor, and Chet accepted. The next week, she took her own house off the market, but I didn't realize that until I started investigating."
"You mean snooping," Bentley said. "You're not a licensed investigator. You were snooping." He gave the room's camera a victorious I-got-her look. "But how did you come to suspect her?"
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