Wishful Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 3)

by Angela Pepper

  Charlize leaned in suddenly, like she had spotted some food she hadn’t eaten yet, or was physically jumping on the idea. “What makes you sure about that? We are nothing more than flesh-covered robots. Programs, doing exactly what we were always meant to do. You believe you can choose your beliefs, but you are only a product of your experiences.”

  “Nonsense,” my aunt said. “What would be the point of that? I don’t see why any entity would bother.” She poked at some muffin crumbs on the table. “The whole idea of predestination strikes me as rather tedious.”

  I had to laugh. “That’s the foundation for your belief in free will? That the alternative,” I made air quotes, “wouldn’t be worth the bother?”

  “Yes. Predestination doesn’t leave any room for fun.” Zinnia’s hazel eyes twinkled as she smiled. “Also, I happen to know that the future is no more fixed than the past.”

  Across the empty food dishes from me, the blonde gorgon’s tangled hair snakes twitched.

  I noticed that Ribbons must have silently joined us without announcement at some point. The wyvern was now cutting deep grooves in the back of a chair with his talons, and staring at Zinnia.

  Something white flashed at the corner of my vision. Boa padded in on silent paws, jumped onto an empty chair, and joined the rest of us in staring at Zinnia expectantly.

  I said, “What do you mean, you happen to know the future is no more fixed than the past?”

  Zinnia looked from Charlize to Ribbons to Boa to me. She held her fingertips over her lips shyly. “Oh, perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned anything. I’m afraid it’s a long, complicated story, and I’m sure you all have better things to do this fine Saturday. I understand from the weather reports that the rain might let up for an hour or two.”

  Right on cue, thunder rattled the teacup on the saucer in front of her.

  Ribbons made the throat-clicking sound that was his non-psychic laughter.

  Boa yawned, then stared at Zinnia with renewed focus, her green eyes larger than ever.

  “I’ve got nowhere I need to be,” I said.

  “I’m on leave,” Charlize said. “And some people believe it’s still too early in the day for tequila.”

  “Tell us what you know,” I urged. “Don’t be a story tease.”

  Zinnia frowned. “I promised I wouldn’t speak of it. I promised Mayor Paladini.”

  “Too late.” I waved my hands in a dramatic swath. “I’ve used magic superglue to close all the doors and windows of this house.” I hadn’t, but it sounded good. “You’re not leaving the premises until you tell us. Does it have something to do with brainweevils?”

  “Yes,” Zinnia said. “Well, not really.” She waved one finger in the air like the slightly dotty woman she was. “But the whole thing did start with a brainweevil.”

  I used magic to call for whatever was left of the food in the kitchen, and we all settled in to hear about Zinnia’s adventure. Ribbons nearly snapped his chair in half.

  Zinnia told us the whole thing, from start to finish. Unvarnished.

  If anyone else had told me what she did, I wouldn’t have believed it. But this was Zinnia Riddle. She had too much integrity to make up a tale about time travel and other worlds just to impress or terrify us. My aunt had traveled through a wrinkle in time and space, and had lived to tell of it.

  Charlize said, “That actually explains a lot about my family.” She had listened without interruption—we both had—and hadn’t even touched the food in front of her.

  Aunt Zinnia beamed proudly.

  Soon, the topic of conversation would return to my current dilemma with Ambrosia the Teenaged Witch, Harry the Ghost, and whether or not we should try some multi-witch spells. But, for a few moments, Charlize and I silently ate cold waffles with warm berries, and let my aunt enjoy her glory.

  Chapter 25

  Monday

  Before Opening

  Wisteria Public Library

  Kathy and I were discussing the lack of coffee beans on the premises, and whose fault it was—the weekend staff, obviously—when there was a knock on the side door.

  Kathy glowered at the door. “If that’s them trying to get in before we’re even open, you have my permission to fireball as many as you see fit.”

  “Ooh.” I pushed up my three-quarter-length sleeves. I was wearing a blue and orange striped dress I’d found at Mia’s Kit and Kaboodle. The size on the tag read XL, and the sleeves had technically been short sleeves, but I’d taken it in for professional alterations, and it was now a different shape and a perfect fit. Plus, there’d been enough fabric left over for the seamstress to make a tiny T-shirt suitable for a baby or a cat. I planned to dress Boa in the shirt when we posed together for the veterinary clinic’s annual calendar. But first, I would torture Ribbons by threatening to put the shirt on him. There was a good chance I’d be out five bucks when the wyvern shredded the baby-sized T-shirt, but what was five dollars compared to so much enjoyment?

  Kathy continued to give the door a dirty look. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s why we’re out of coffee already! The weekend staff must be supplying coffee to the Goblin Hordes!” As of that Monday morning, Kathy had started referring to the ghost hunters as the “Goblin Hordes.”

  The knocking continued.

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” I said, facing the head librarian as I backed toward the door. “It’s possible the weekend staff had to drink more coffee themselves, just to deal with the extra traffic. Remember, the weekend staff are not so different from us. They’re also suffering from this whole haunting situation.”

  Kathy huffed and crossed her arms. Lately, she’d been more irritated than usual at everything the weekend crew was doing. The feisty lady was always mad at someone, but rarely the person she should have been mad at. Her husband was out of town yet again, traveling with their professional athlete sons, and Kathy had run out of crafting projects to keep herself contented. She would be taking it out on the weekend staff, or the Goblin Hordes, or me.

  The knocking at the door became more insistent. I opened the door.

  Standing on the step in the rain were two witches. At the front was young Ambrosia Abernathy, again wearing bright yellow rain gear. Behind her was the tall and imposing Maisy Nix, dressed in a dark jacket. Ambrosia resembled a wet rubber duckie, and Maisy resembled the duckie’s tall, imposing shadow.

  Neither of them looked pleased to be there. But, on the plus side, neither of them were firing plasma balls at me. They hadn’t come to finish what Ambrosia had started.

  “Well, hello there,” Kathy called out from her seat at the lunch table. Her attitude had made a complete turn, and her tone was friendly. She and Maisy weren’t friends, but Kathy knew Maisy was a witch. I’d noticed that other supernaturals were in awe of Maisy. I didn’t see the appeal. She was kind of mean.

  Neither Maisy nor Ambrosia returned Kathy’s hello.

  “What can we do for you ladies?” Kathy asked sweetly. “We aren’t open to the public yet, but any friends of Zara’s are friends of the library.”

  Maisy narrowed her eyes at Kathy, then looked at me, one sharp eyebrow raised. “Does your associate have clearance?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I can make formal introductions, if you’d like.”

  “No need,” Maisy said, stepping inside, dragging Ambrosia along by the ear. By the ear!

  Ambrosia kept her gaze down on her yellow boots. She wore her yellow rain hat pulled down low on her head, so that only a tiny fringe of bleached-white bangs were visible over her dark eyebrows. Her face looked pudgier and younger than before. Her eyes were puffy, and ringed with purple, as though she’d been crying. I almost felt bad for the girl. Almost. She may have shed a few tears over our encounter, but she wasn’t the one who’d woken up in a drunk tank.

  “So, you’re in town after all,” I said to Ambrosia. “My daughter was on the lookout for you all weekend, but you weren’t in any of the usual teen places.” I suspecte
d Ambrosia had used magic to hide herself. Zoey was quite adept at sniffing people out—literally.

  Ambrosia didn’t respond.

  Maisy said, “Zara, Miss Abernathy has something to say to you.”

  I rubbed my hands together. “A confession? Is she going to tell us why she’s been poisoning everyone who crosses her path?”

  Ambrosia looked up, puffy eyes blazing, face defiant. “I didn’t poison anyone.”

  “You poisoned me,” I said. “I was there, remember?”

  She looked down at the dirty puddles spreading beneath her yellow boots, and muttered something under her breath.

  Maisy jerked her arm, and a spell crackled around the girl’s upper ear, where it was being pinched.

  Ambrosia yelped, then met my gaze and gushed, “I’m sorry, Ms. Riddle! I shouldn’t have cast that spell on you. It was wrong of me.”

  Kathy, who knew of my Friday adventures with Frank, chimed in, “It certainly was wrong of you, young lady! At your age, you shouldn’t even be thinking about alcohol, much less flooding other people’s livers with it. If you were one of my boys, you’d be so grounded you’d forget what the sun looked like!”

  Kathy’s bark was a fictional retelling of her bite. I happened to know, thanks to workplace gossip, that Kathy’s sons could have gotten away with murder, and she would have chalked it up to harmless fun. People were always more punishment-oriented when it came to other people’s children.

  Maisy asked me, “Do you accept this apology?”

  I looked at the sparking connection between Maisy’s fingers and the top of Ambrosia’s ear. “I’m not sure how heartfelt an apology is when given under so much duress.”

  Ambrosia’s lower lip jutted out, trembling. “I was only trying to help, Ms. Riddle. Honestly! I just wanted to help Mr. Blackstone. He’s my neighbor, and he’s always been nice to me. Or at least he was.”

  Maisy cut in. “What my young protégée should have told you when you startled her on Friday evening was that she feared for her life. Her attack on you, wrong as it was, was in self-defense. She had reason to believe that you were the one who poisoned Harold J. Blackstone.”

  “Me?” I looked over at Kathy, shaking my head. “It wasn’t me. If you have any other suspects, telling me or the detectives would be a lot more useful than jinxing other witches.”

  Ambrosia squeezed her puffy eyes together like she might cry. “I... Uh...”

  Behind me, Kathy said with urgency, “We have to get the doors in five minutes, Zara.” Opening the front doors to the public was a simple task that only required one person. Kathy was urging me to get to the meat of Ambrosia’s story quickly, so she could hear it all first-hand before we opened.

  “You have five minutes, young lady.” I gestured for the little witch to get to the point.

  My casual gesture must have frightened her. Ambrosia shrank away and began sobbing uncontrollably.

  After that, Maisy and I both tried to get more information out of the teenager, but the young witch was too upset. She couldn’t string together three coherent words. I blamed Maisy for being too rough on her.

  After four minutes and forty-eight seconds, Kathy sighed, pulled out her key ring with a decisive jingle, and walked off to open the doors.

  Chapter 26

  Maisy and I did eventually get the details out of Ambrosia, and I had to agree that she only did what I would have done.

  The sixteen-year-old witch had learned of her next door neighbor’s death, then picked up on the rumors about him haunting the local library. She didn’t appear to be Spirit Charmed like I was, yet, unlike most witches, she could see ghosts. She saw Ghost-Harry hanging around me, the library, and around my car, in a way that seemed suspicious.

  Had I been in her yellow rubber boots, I might have thought the same thing. No. I definitely would have thought the same thing.

  When she’d come to the library side door on Friday, it had been a bluff, a move to provoke a reaction. She’d been trying to put the scare on me that she knew I’d done something. At the time, she hadn’t even known I was a witch. She was new to having powers, and had made contact with Maisy, but hadn’t yet been brought into the fold with our local coven. These facts went a long way to explain her actions during our brief battle.

  She also swore up and down, under a bond oath, that she hadn’t poisoned Harry or conspired with anyone else to harm him.

  Maisy, who’d been patiently listening to everything, asked if I was satisfied, and if I would call off “the hounds.” She meant the detectives, who’d been looking into Ambrosia as a suspect, at my suggestion.

  “I’ll let the authorities know,” I told the young witch.

  She looked up at me with big, pleading eyes. “Am I forgiven?” She sniffed.

  Before I could open my mouth, Maisy said, “Not until we find a suitable punishment.”

  I shrugged. “You heard your mentor,” I said. “But I think we’ll be okay, as long as you never, ever, ever do something like that to me again.” I shook my finger at her. “I underestimated you once, but it will not happen again, Miss Abernathy.” As I spoke the words, I fluffed my hair back on a magical surge of wind for maximum impact.

  “Until then,” Maisy said. “Punishment to be determined.”

  “Thank you so much for everything,” I said to Maisy. I had called her on the weekend, on Zinnia’s advice, and I was glad to see my aunt’s faith had not been misplaced.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Maisy said, instead of a simple you’re welcome.

  “You’re a handy person to know,” I said.

  Maisy narrowed her eyes. “Now what?”

  “We’re out of coffee,” I said. “I don’t suppose you could send someone over here later with a rush delivery, could you?” I nodded at Ambrosia. “Perhaps that could be Miss Abernathy’s punishment. She can make a few deliveries.”

  “No,” Maisy said simply. “I have some extra bags of beans in my car. You can have them now.”

  I thanked her again, and we brought in the coffee. As I watched Ambrosia sulk around, I wondered what sort of punishment would be appropriate for fireball-blasting and rum-poisoning without cause. I also wondered why I’d never been hit with such punishment, other than the one time my aunt grounded my magic powers with some witchbane chocolate.

  Ambrosia and Maisy left for school and work, respectively

  I didn’t rush out to my librarian duties just yet, planning to beg Kathy’s forgiveness rather than beg for permission.

  I made a few phone calls to update everyone about Ambrosia Abernathy being off the suspect list.

  When I finally stepped out of the staff break room, I heard a pair of men in comically large glasses, both previously identified as members of the Goblin Horde, asking Kathy if there was any more of that “complimentary coffee” that they had enjoyed so much over the weekend.

  Kathy’s jaw dropped open. I thought she might whip them both with her sprite tongue, but she managed to restrain herself.

  Their request, however, gave me an idea.

  “Gentlemen, the coffee is brewing right now,” I called out sweetly.

  Kathy whipped around and gave me a startled look. “I thought we were out.”

  “Our good friend, the owner of Dreamland Coffee, had a few extra bags of beans in her car,” I explained.

  To the men in the glasses, I said, “Our special library blend of coffee is available by donation. The suggested donation amount is five dollars per cup.”

  The men conferred with each other for all of two seconds, then one said, “Two cups, please.” He set a crisp ten-dollar bill on the counter.

  As I walked past Kathy to pick up the cash, I murmured, “I trust this will help with the budget issues?”

  She squealed, but in a quiet, librarian-like manner.

  * * *

  By the end of that Monday, we’d made over two hundred dollars on coffee, plus another $3.78 in tips. The ghost hunters weren’t big tippers. At least
they valued the coffee. It turned out the only thing the ghost hunters loved more than stalking ghosts was staying up late in their motels telling ghost stories all night. The sleepyheads needed a high level of caffeine to get through their days.

  Kathy’s mood leveled out, but she did continue calling them goblins.

  Harry the Ghost had made an appearance, dozing in his chair by the window as usual. He set off one of the crew’s paranormal sensory devices. There was a real hullabaloo as two dozen ghost hunters crowded into the reading nook to experience what they breathlessly called “an event.”

  As I watched, I was tempted to cast a spell, just to give them something for their efforts. I did not. I was a grownup, and I understood that my actions had consequences.

  Case in point: Helen Highbury, the nosy woman whose bottom I had nipped with a spell, had gotten over her fear of viral contagion, and, as of that Monday, had joined forces with the Goblin Horde. She swore up and down that the ghost haunting the library was a pervy old man who pinched bottoms. Due to the power of suggestion, several of the female ghost hunters—about ten percent of the group were women—began reporting that their bottoms were also being pinched. Then several of the men reported the same. I felt bad for Harry, and the reputation his ghost was getting.

  At the end of the day, after counting up our cash haul from the coffee donations, Kathy and I were both in good spirits.

  When we stepped outside, the rain coming down took us both by surprise. I didn’t know about Kathy, but I must have subconsciously expected the weather to improve along with our petty cash coffers.

  I cast a large umbrella over both of us, and escorted Kathy to her beat-up brown Honda Civic.

  She had already fired up the old thing with a puff of blue smoke and driven away by the time I turned the key in Foxy Pumpkin’s ignition.

  My car let out a sound that could only be described as, well, flatulence. I tried again. The engine wouldn’t turn over.