Wishful Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 3)

by Angela Pepper

  On Tuesday, with Kathy’s permission, I cornered and questioned one. Thanks to the judicious use of a bluffing spell, I learned that the newcomers were part of an internet support group for people who saw ghosts. Someone had tipped them off about our library being freshly haunted, and the strangers had come from all over the country to partake in the paranormal. They were ghost groupies.

  By Wednesday, eight days after the death of Harry Blackstone, the number of paranormal enthusiasts in the library at any given time outnumbered the locals by three to one. Emboldened by their numbers, they dropped the pretext of being in town to visit friends or family, and talked loudly and excitedly to each other about ghost sightings. Using their outdoor voices!

  The funniest part—to me, anyway—was that most of these supposedly “sensitive” folks were not. They sensed nothing! They couldn’t spot a ghost if it sat on their lap. They certainly didn’t spot the ghost in Harry’s chair before sitting on his lap. Harry Blackstone would wander through a pack of them discussing their recent “sighting,” and none would bat an eyelash.

  There were, however, moments when one of the bunch would actually sense Harry doing something. Either they had some legitimate empaths among them, or they were occasionally correct the way a stopped clock was accurate twice a day. And if two of them happened to witness something at the same time, they would shriek with excitement as they rushed to take photos and record the “event.”

  Friday came, and we were happier than usual to close at the end of the day and kick everyone out.

  After we’d begged, cajoled, and threatened the last ghost enthusiast off the premises, Kathy called an emergency staff meeting.

  Kathy, Frank, and I sat in the staff break room, grimly dividing a package of dry soup crackers.

  It was a dark day, indeed.

  Due to all the hullabaloo over the haunting, we had completely forgotten about Fresh Pastry Fridays. There had been no baked goods that day. We didn’t even have any leftover stale ones, hence the soup crackers.

  “This is serious,” Frank said, nibbling a dry cracker.

  “It’s untenable,” Kathy said.

  Both of them looked at me expectantly.

  “Well?” Frank asked, spraying cracker crumbs.

  “Well?” Kathy asked, too, leaning away to avoid Frank’s cracker spray.

  “Well, what?” I asked. “Just because I’m the Spirit Charmed witch, that makes me the ghost exterminator?”

  In unison, they said, “Yes.”

  I nodded and grabbed some crackers.

  “You have to do something,” Frank said. “These ghost hunters are creating trip hazards with all the extension cords for their recording equipment.”

  “We need everything returned to normal,” Kathy said. “The staff is too distracted, and duties are not being performed in a timely manner. While our mandate is to serve the public, and these ghost hunter people are the public, I’m not sure this is the best use of library resources.”

  “Stop being so politically correct,” Frank said to Kathy. “It’s just the three of us.” To me, he said, “The loony toons need to hit the road.”

  “Frank’s right,” Kathy said.

  Frank continued, “And you need to do it fast. They’re posing for selfies in front of the Little Red Riding Hood mural. It’s all going viral, Zara. There are a bunch of hashtags and everything. People on the internet are mocking us.”

  “That is what people on the internet do,” I said.

  “Yes, but they’re being unnecessarily cruel,” he said. “They’re making Wisteria sound like one of those eccentric small towns full of weirdos.”

  I bit my tongue.

  “What about your ghost powers?” Kathy asked. “Are you broken? Did something happen to you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said plainly. “Maybe I am broken. I’ve tried the page-finding spell on Harry a dozen times, and I can’t access his memories.”

  “Must be the beetles,” Frank said. “He was riddled with holes from some kind of beetles.”

  “You mean the brainworms,” Kathy corrected. “It was worms, no beetles.”

  “It was brainweevils,” I said, correcting them both. “And maybe that’s why this one is so tricky. His spirit’s brain might have holes in it.”

  “Hmm.” Frank rubbed his chin.

  “Hmm.” Kathy removed her glasses and cleaned them.

  “Guys, I don’t know what to tell you,” I said. “The DWM is investigating his death. I’m sure once they figure out who supplied Harry with the peck of poison peppers, Harry will move on.” I paused, frowning. “You know what? I gave this exact same speech to the coven earlier this week.”

  And I had. The coven’s response had been mixed. Some of the witches wanted to help me cast a few of Trinada’s three-witch spells, dangerous though they were. Others felt strongly that the local shifters had gotten lazy, and were relying too much on the free labor of witches. Margaret Mills in particular had ranted about men in general, and their willingness to let women do all the work while they took all the credit. Margaret was going through a divorce, and her rants had a particular anti-male slant to them.

  I filled in Kathy and Frank on the gist of my last coven meeting. Then they both complained some more about the ghost hunters. Frank enjoyed dancing around their questions, but worried he might accidentally spill the beans to one of the nicer, more attractive ones of the bunch. Kathy was concerned about a rise in our electricity bills. All that paranormal equipment was a drain on library resources, and we already had budget issues.

  The complaining was interrupted by the sound of a gentle tapping at the door. It was likely someone we knew. Even the most persistent of library patrons usually left that door alone. Then again, things had been different lately.

  Frank looked toward the door, then smirked as he said to me, “It must be your good friend Helen Highbury, wanting to borrow every medical textbook that deals with butt cramps.”

  “Ha ha,” I said. “Maybe it’s that cute ghost hunter who was asking you about local wineries.”

  “I wish,” Frank said.

  There was another tap, louder and more insistent. Someone was definitely knocking to be let in.

  Frank said, “Rochambeau?”

  Kathy and I nodded in agreement, and we held out our fists for the game most Americans call rock-paper-scissors.

  Frank lost the round by default when he fumbled and made a non-legal, spider-like shape to my mighty rock and Kathy’s fierce scissors.

  He went to the door and cracked it open. The sound of rain hitting the side of the mostly concrete building filled the quiet room.

  Frank didn’t open the door all the way, so I could only see a sliver of the person who’d been knocking. It was a female, and she was dressed in gleaming, bright-yellow rain gear.

  Frank said, “I’m afraid we’re closed for browsing, Miss, but can I help you with something else?”

  The bright yellow wavered from side to side. She was trying to see into the room, past Frank, which wasn’t difficult given his slim frame.

  Her head tilted sideways, and she caught my eye with one of hers. Her visible eye was large and spooky, like that of my former neighbor, Corvin’s. She had thick, dark eyelashes, equally thick, black eyebrows, and a fringe of bleached-white hair sticking out from under her cap, which was as yellow as her rain slicker. She looked about sixteen, my daughter’s age.

  The girl said to Frank, “Is that your car? The orange one?”

  “No, but it does belong to my coworker,” Frank said. “Are you looking for a used car?”

  I yelled out, “It’s not for sale!”

  If the girl had been interested in the car, it wouldn’t have surprised me. Foxy Pumpkin had been attracting more attention than usual. I’d had an offer to purchase the old vehicle every day for ten days—ever since her creator had passed away.

  The girl giggled in response to Frank’s answer. “I don’t want to buy that dirty old thing,” she sai
d.

  I muttered to Kathy, “It’s not dirty.”

  Kathy snorted. “And it’s not old,” she said, because my car wasn’t old when compared to Kathy’s ancient Honda Civic, currently rusting in the staff parking lot.

  “Then what can I help you with?” Frank asked, sounding a touch impatient. “We are closed for the day, miss.”

  “I just wanted to tell you about something?” Her voice pitched up, turning every statement into a sort of question. “It’s just that someone is tampering with the engine right now? I thought whoever owned it would want to know?”

  Frank leaned out. One of his feet rose off the ground behind him for balance as he peered out into the rain. I gave Kathy a double eyebrow raise. Frank was standing like a flamingo again. Kathy smiled. We enjoyed noticing it when he did anything related to his shifter form.

  Frank said to the teenager in yellow, “Is this some sort of shakedown? Who sent you? I don’t see anyone.”

  She replied, still uptalking. “Of course you wouldn’t see him? He’s sort of a ghost?”

  A ghost?

  Kathy hooted, “Whooo is that girl?”

  I jumped off my chair and ran to the door. I grabbed Frank by the hips, yanking him out of the way despite his squawks of protest.

  Chapter 16

  The teen girl’s face was round, and her eyes were large and dark, thickly rimmed with black eyeliner and topped by bruise-purple eye shadow. Her skin was pale, uniformly coated in a concealer three shades too light. I tried not to judge a book by its cover, or a person by their surface, but she looked like the sort of kid who would claim to see a ghost whether she was an empath or not.

  I looked past her, through the veil of rain, at my car.

  There was a man in front of Foxy Pumpkin, and he was not solid. His back was to me, but his clothes were the same ones Harry-Ghost had been wearing. Harry’s ghostly hands were out of view, beneath the closed hood. What was he up to?

  I turned to the girl’s pale moon-face and asked, “What is this alleged ghost doing right now?”

  She glanced at my car and answered in more teen-girl upspeak. “I dunno? Something with the engine, maybe?”

  “Are you here with the others?”

  “The others?” She blinked her dark raccoon eyes repeatedly.

  “From the internet forum,” I said. “The group that’s been here all week. Are you one of them?”

  “I’m not one of anything,” she said, her eyes glistening. Hoarsely, she added, “I’m all on my own.”

  We locked gazes, and I felt her sadness rise up within me. I broke eye contact to check my car. The ghost was gone, and there was only rain pouring down.

  The girl followed my gaze and said, “He’s gone now.” Then she turned her sad eyes on me and said, “Mr. B is supposed to be resting in peace, but he isn’t.”

  “You knew him?”

  She nodded.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Ambrosia,” she said.

  I knew that name. The muscles in my back realigned as I stood to full height.

  “Ambrosia Abernathy?” I asked, certain she was the eccentric girl my daughter had mentioned.

  The muscles in her face twitched. “You know about me?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Are you the sort of girl who drives an old hearse around town and pretends she can see ghosts?”

  She pursed her pale lips and narrowed her eyes. Her eyelids lowered, expanding the dark purple eye shadow, making the pale-faced girl look more like a skull by the second.

  She said nothing.

  I pressed on. “Or, are you the sort of girl who drives an old hearse around town and can actually see ghosts?”

  She broke eye contact and looked down at her yellow rubber boots. “Everyone knows ghosts aren’t real.”

  “So, you didn’t see a ghost tinkering with my car just now?”

  “Nope.” She shrugged. “It was just a joke. A stupid joke.”

  “Ms. Abernathy, do you know something about what’s been happening around here lately? You can tell me. I’m a pretty good listener.”

  “Never mind,” she said, turning away.

  “I’ll be here on Monday,” I called after her. “You should drop in.”

  “I’ve got school,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Come by after school!”

  She tilted back her yellow umbrella and twirled it in the rain.

  I watched her walk away, then reported back to my coworkers, who’d been listening the whole time but weren’t able to see the ghost like I could. Or like Ambrosia Abernathy could.

  Frank looked up the teenager’s account in our system. She had a library card, but had never checked out any materials.

  “I have other resources,” I assured the others. “My daughter goes to school with the girl.”

  “She can see ghosts,” Frank said. “She’s been sent here to help with Harry.”

  “I don’t need help seeing him,” I said.

  Frank pointed at the closed door. “That visit was a message from the Spirits of the Deep.”

  Kathy asked, “The Spirits of the Deep send messages via teenagers in yellow rain slickers?”

  “The Spirits of the Deep work in mysterious ways,” Frank said. “Why not a teenager? They send messages to my uncle, Felix, all the time. The Spirits of the Deep don’t have the highest standards.”

  “Okay, Frank. I’ll bite,” I said. “What’s the message?”

  Frank frowned for a moment, then said matter-of-factly, “You need to finish what you started with Harry.”

  “Finish what?” Kathy asked on my behalf.

  “He wanted to do something to your car,” Frank said, with a duh tone, as though it should have been obvious. “That must be why he was digging around under the hood just now. That is what you saw him doing, right?”

  “It did appear that way.” I rubbed my chin thoughtfully. “You don’t think he’s sticking around to avenge his murder by poisoning?”

  “Maybe it’s all connected.” Frank circled his finger in the air. “Your old car. Harry’s poisoning. All the ghost hunters coming out of the woodwork. That spooky little girl. Maybe everything’s connected.”

  “Hmm,” Kathy said. Her stomach grumbled in a threatening manner.

  We all looked at the empty cracker box.

  If I knew Kathy’s stomach grumbles—and I did—this executive staff meeting would be ending soon, one way or another.

  “Okay,” I said, clapping my hands together. “I’ll do something with Harry and my car. I don’t know what, but maybe it’ll come to me.”

  “Or you could take the car to him,” Frank said. “Did he have a garage at his house?”

  “I don’t even know if he had a house.”

  Harry ran to the computer and typed rapidly. “Here he is. That’s not an apartment address.” More typing. “That’s odd. It’s the same street as the spooky girl.” A few clicks. “Right next door.”

  Kathy’s stomach grumbled again. She also grumbled, “We shouldn’t be using the library computers to spy on people. It’s against the terms of our privacy policy.”

  Frank and I exchanged a look. Kathy’s regard for the rules fluctuated with her hunger levels. Sprites commonly developed dysfunctional metabolic systems on the Standard American Diet. Actually, Kathy’s regard for a great number of things fluctuated with her hunger levels.

  Frank said, “I think you should go to Harry’s house. Who knows? He might be receptive to your spells there, and maybe you’ll be able to read him like a book, or whatever it is you do. Am I saying it right?”

  I nodded. “Reading him like a book is exactly what I’m supposed to be able to do.” I kept nodding. “I guess going to his house is worth a shot. We’re not getting anything useful out of him here at the library. All he does here is take naps.”

  “Your detective beau won’t mind? You’re not stepping on his toes, are you?”

  “He’s a big, strong guy who can handle
a little toe stepping.” I grinned. “Besides, I don’t think the Blackstone case is a high priority.” Unlike Lund, Bentley wasn’t convinced the death was a homicide.

  I turned to Kathy for her input, but her chair was empty. Kathy was by the door, pulling on a rain slicker of her own, a mottled green and gray slicker that didn’t offer much visibility for crossing sidewalks in the rain.

  “I guess that wraps up the executive meeting,” I said.

  “Pretty much,” Frank said.

  Kathy sighed as she zipped up her rain slicker. “Honestly, I don’t care what you do, as long as you do something. This whole situation is untenable. It’s only going to get worse. We’re going to be overrun with those people. They’re like a plague of locusts, or a horde of something worse.” She wrinkled her nose. “Like goblins.”

  “They’re not all bad,” Frank said.

  “They are all equally bad,” Kathy retorted. “I’ve had to assign extra staff for the weekend, which will drain our budget. I can squeeze a few more cents here and there, but if this heavy foot traffic without the support of circulation numbers goes on much longer, I’ll have to make cuts. We won’t be able to paint over the wolf mural. Or buy crayons and coloring books.”

  “Not the crayon budget!” Frank gasped and turned to me with pleading eyes. “You have to do something,” he said.

  Kathy flipped up her collar. With an air of formality, she said, “Harry Blackstone was not my favorite patron when he was alive, but it seems death has improved my sentiments toward the man, as death often does.” She looked directly at me. “Zara, I hereby authorize you to do whatever you can to usher his troubled spirit... somewhere else. You may use any of the library resources, including your time on shift, however you see fit.”

  I pushed up my cardigan sleeves. Let the shenanigans begin!

  Kathy left.

  Frank and I looked at each other.

  “We need to save the crayon budget,” I said. “I’ll drive by Harry’s house over the weekend.”

  “Let’s go there right now.”

  “Let’s?”