Wisteria Witches Mysteries Box Set 3

by Angela Pepper

  We changed tactics, hanging big decorative canvases on the stone walls, only to find them missing the next day, and a pile of ashes on the floor.

  That was when I’d sensed a novel way to solve another problem. After Zoey had gone to sleep, I snuck her hideous floral lamp down to the basement. However, unlike the two coats of primer and the decorative canvases, the lamp had been perfectly intact the next morning. Not just intact, but gaudier and more floral than ever. It even seemed to be heavier. Before, it would have rated a seven out of ten for bludgeoning, but now it was closer to an eight.

  Zoey realized the lamp had gone missing from her bedroom, stomped down to the basement, and scolded me as she repossessed the monstrosity.

  And so, besides the addition of a few more books, the basement lair remained exactly as dungeon-like as the day it had magically appeared.

  I settled in at my desk and dove into research mode.

  I took a brief break when Zoey got home. I broke the news about Corvin to her, had a light dinner, then settled back in for more reading.

  At some point, I must have dozed off.

  I woke up to the sound of something ringing. I jerked my head up quickly, and nearly fell off my chair.

  My basement lair was cozy enough despite the decoration, but the darkness did lead to napping. And one of my reference tomes in particular amplified the nap factor. In fact, the onset of sudden napping was a known side effect of consulting Zarnov’s Big Book of Mythical Bedtime Tales. The book’s stories were equal parts terrifying, informative, and—weirdly enough—sleep-inducing. Also, the pages themselves puffed up to form a pillow whenever they detected contact with a face.

  The ringing sound that had woken me grew more insistent. It was my laptop, sitting on top of a stack of old books. The sound was an incoming video call from my aunt.

  I answered groggily.

  “Zara?” The redheaded older woman on the screen leaned forward, her familiar features taking up the whole display. “Are you in some sort of dungeon?”

  “Just down here in my new-old basement,” I said.

  Zinnia had been there several times, so she readily accepted my explanation about where I was.

  With the mystery of my location resolved, my aunt peppered me with new questions. “Why do you look so tired, Zara? What’s happening there? Why did you let me go away on vacation for so long? Don’t answer that, actually. I don’t want to know. Where’s Zoey?”

  “One question at a time.” I yawned and stretched on my chair. “It’s been a long day, and I’m afraid good ol’ Zarnov’s took me down about half an hour ago.” I slapped both of my cheeks to wake myself up.

  “Where’s Zoey?” Zinnia repeated.

  I didn’t want my aunt to worry, but there was no point in lying to her. After hearing the news about Corvin, my daughter had run out, too anxious to stay indoors when she could be looking for him.

  “She’s sniffing around town, checking the Moore boy’s favorite hangouts. I’m afraid he went missing earlier today.”

  “Floopy doop,” she said, just like I knew she would.

  “Don’t make me laugh, Aunt Zinnia. This is serious.” I paused to double-check that our communications link was secure. It was, so I continued. “Corvin was in his animal form when he went missing. He’s a hellhound, by the way. Did you know about that?”

  “A hellhound? How interesting. That does explain a lot about the Moore boy.”

  “I know, right?” I went on to tell her about how Chet had been dropping off his adopted son, in dog form, with Veronica Tate for regular outings. Chet did it so Corvin could freely trot around town while spending quality time with a dog pack. According to the boy’s father, it was beneficial for Corvin’s social skills as a human to spend time with other dogs, even if they weren’t hellhounds like him.

  I backtracked, telling Zinnia about that morning’s meeting with Temperance Krinkle, and confirmed that my aunt didn’t know the woman personally. If anything, Zinnia was offended by the idea that she would be acquainted with someone like Krinkle. It might have been the way I described Krinkle as being around Zinnia’s age. Zara tries to be a good witch, but Zara enjoys teasing Aunt Zinnia about her age.

  Once she’d calmed down about the age thing, we covered what happened after we’d identified the missing woman as Veronica Tate, and the dog she’d been walking as Corvin. I relayed the result of my spells, leaving out the specifics about the Tate Family Guest Towel Soiling Incident.

  The full WPD would be working around the clock, using their standard missing person protocols. They were canvassing all of Veronica Tate’s family, friends, and dog-walking clients. So far, Tate appeared to be as normal as a person could be, considering she lived in Wisteria.

  Veronica Tate, age thirty-nine, didn’t have any known enemies, addictions, or financial problems. She was a hard-working mother of two who ran a dog-walking business during the day. She had several university degrees, specializing in antiquities and ancient languages, but hadn’t done much with her degrees except have them framed for the wall.

  Phone records revealed she’d recently had a few incoming calls from a pay phone. The pay phone was situated in her neighborhood’s grocery store, right next to the bulletin board where she advertised her dog-walking service. All of the dogs she had been walking that day were back with their owners, except for Corvin.

  “For all we know, the kidnapping had nothing to do with Tate,” I said to my aunt.

  Zinnia made a soft noise of agreement.

  I went on. “She could have been an unfortunate bystander during a dognapping—or, should I say—a hell-hound-napping.”

  “And there’s been no ransom demand?”

  I shook my head. “But on a positive note, at least I haven’t seen her ghost yet. Let alone—” My throat tightened. Let alone the ghost of Corvin Moore. Perish the thought! As much as he gave me the creeps, I’d gotten used to the little guy. The idea of something bad happening to him made my whole body hurt.

  “Just because you haven’t seen her spirit doesn’t guarantee she’s still alive,” Zinnia said sharply.

  “I know!”

  Then, softer, she said, “But I understand what you are saying, Zara. That is a good observation. We ought to always stay positive and not give up hope.” She gazed down and touched the corner of her eye with one finger. “That poor little boy. He must be so frightened.”

  “What should I do next? Should I consult all the others in the coven?”

  She looked up, directly into the camera. Her lips pursed. She said nothing.

  “You know that I know there’s a coven,” I said. “I also know that you’re in it, and so is Maisy Nix, and her niece. I already talked to Maisy this morning, and she didn’t have much to say about the case. Who’s the fourth member? Is it someone who can help find Corvin?”

  Zinnia’s pinched lips nearly disappeared. “The value of that particular person’s help is greatly exceeded by her skill as a hindrance. That witch is a walking hindrance.”

  “Ouch. Sounds like you two don’t like each other much.”

  “On the contrary,” Zinnia said lightly. “She’s my best friend.”

  “And yet you call her a walking hindrance?”

  Zinnia’s tightly pressed lips curved into a smile. “She’s not always a walking hindrance. Sometimes you have to load her onto a heavy duty furniture dolly and wheel her around.”

  “If you’re trying to make me implode with curiosity, it’s working.”

  Softly, she said, “We’ll discuss matters of the coven when I get home.”

  “No more secrets,” I said. “You lied to me. You told me you weren’t part of a coven, that witches didn’t have big, warty noses, and that they didn’t keep black cats, or ride around on broomsticks. But then your coven buddy, Maisy, took me on quite the broomstick ride. What else are you hiding from me? If I break into your house right now, am I going to find a warty-nosed house sitter looking after a dozen black cats?”

/>   “You couldn’t break into my house if you tried.”

  I couldn’t?

  She quickly waved a hand at the camera on her side. “Forget I said that. Please. It’s not a challenge, Zara. Before I went away with your mother, I put some extra protective wards on my house. Please don’t go over there. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  “Shouldn’t you have put the wards on my house? I mean, if you were going away...?”

  “I did,” she said.

  “Oh.” I’d been gearing up to give her a hard time, and now I had nothing. I looked down at my hands, and then at the open book on my desk.

  The mere glimpse of a woodcut illustration in Zarnov’s Big Book of Mythical Bedtime Tales gave me a powerful urge to yawn. I slammed the book shut for my own protection.

  As the book closed, air movement stirred some loose papers. The top sheet was a color printout, a photograph of one of Krinkle’s other miniature crime scenes. It was the office, the one which held the woman in the green dress, lying in blood on the floor.

  I reached for the paper. “Aunt Zinnia, do you mind if I show you something that might be upsetting?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you ask for permission before upsetting me?”

  “I’m serious. It’s a crime scene from before I moved here. I’m guessing you might have been friends with the victim.”

  She leaned back in her chair in one smooth movement. From my perspective, watching her on my laptop screen, she appeared to be shrinking in size, becoming a smaller and smaller version of the Zinnia Riddle I knew.

  Her voice came through smaller as well. “You don’t need to show me,” she said. “Is it Annette Scholem?”

  “That’s the name Bentley gave me.”

  “I suppose I ought to tell you everything about my dear friend Annette,” she said, slowly and sadly. “I would rather not, but you ought to know, in case her death is in any way connected to today’s kidnapping.” She held up one finger. “Give me a moment to prepare a fresh pot of tea, and we’ll begin.”

  I jumped off my chair. “While you’re at it, I’ll nuke myself some cold coffee. I’d get Ribbons to steam it for me, but he’s out helping the search party.”

  We both prepared our hot beverages, leaving the screens on. We returned, got settled, and she began.

  * * *

  When she was done telling her story, my coffee was cold again. I hadn’t taken a single sip.

  “I’m speechless,” I said.

  My aunt offered up the first smile in over an hour. “That’s a first,” she said.

  “You are one tough lady,” I said. “I... I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say that you promise to be careful with spirits. Even more careful than you’ve been.” She sipped her tea. “Spirits are not supposed to affect the living, but, as I found out first-hand, they don’t always obey the rules. They can manipulate objects they were connected to in life, including their own remains.”

  I shuddered at the idea of a ghost animating her own cremated ashes to take revenge.

  “I’ll be careful,” I promised, and then, “I miss you.”

  She coughed into her hand. “I’ll be back soon. I’m exhausted from your mother dragging me from one country to another. It all blurs together. I swear, after you’ve seen one palatial mansion owned by a supernatural billionaire, you’ve seen them all.”

  “Sounds rough,” I said.

  She started to say something else, but she was interrupted by my mother flouncing into view, her black hair flying and a strange, cat-like creature in her arms.

  Then I had to explain my whole day all over again to my mother, who was absolutely no help at all.

  Chapter 17

  SUNDAY MORNING

  There was no news on the missing persons case as of Sunday morning. We’d been hoping for something concrete, like a ransom call, but there had been none. Bentley assured me the outcome could still be good. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours yet. It was possible the dog had chased a squirrel into the woods, and the woman had lost her bearings.

  I doubted that scenario was true. Between Ribbons and Zoey in fox form, not to mention all the shifters at the DWM, a woman and a dog lost in the woods would have been found by now.

  But I would try to maintain my optimism regardless.

  I jumped out of bed and hit up my closet for wardrobe suggestions. My closet served up an uncomfortable yet very cute bra, a frilly blouse, and nothing else.

  “That’s it?” I stared at my overstuffed closet in disbelief. “Are you trusting me to pick out my own pants, or am I supposed to wear this top with my pajama bottoms?”

  No response from the closet, or the house.

  I shrugged and dressed the top part of my body as suggested. I would wait until later to select the rest. Sometimes there was a delay on the spell. I might find the perfect pants laid out on my bed after breakfast. Pajama bottoms were fine for now. And it was the weekend, after all.

  I brushed my hair, then started the process of getting my teenager prepared for the day.

  Zoey was scheduled to start working at the museum. In spite of everything going on, we’d decided it was for the best if she stuck to her commitments.

  It would be her first gig that wasn’t a self-employment endeavor, such as the plant-watering business she started when she was ten. That business had been more of a ruse to gain access to the apartments of “normal” people than it had been about earning money. She’d also taken an interest in bartending at the age of twelve, but my drinking habits—or the lack thereof—hadn’t led to many tips. That made the job at the museum her first “real” job, and I couldn’t think of a better place for her to get her start. Well, there was one other place. But a museum was nearly as good as a library.

  Thanks to my chirpy encouragement, I got my grumbling, yawning daughter through the shower, into clean clothes, and down to the kitchen for a nourishing breakfast.

  She watched sleepily as I used magic to peel uncooked eggs and then soft-boil them.

  The peeling was part of my novice witch lessons. It was the equivalent of a musician learning to play scales perfectly before tackling songs. Raw-egg peeling wasn’t supposed to be fun, yet I had grown to enjoy it the way some people loved solving Sudoku puzzles. Whenever I was levitating an egg and carefully shucking away the delicate shell, one piece at a time, the rest of the world faded away. There was only the egg.

  I put Zoey’s breakfast in front of her with a flourish. She didn’t move; she appeared to be sleeping with her eyes open.

  I sat next to her and put my arm around her shoulders.

  She woke up, wiped drool from the side of her mouth, and grabbed her fork to dig in.

  “You don’t absolutely have to start the job today,” I said. “The people at the museum would understand if you told them your friend went missing and you were up all night looking for him.”

  “Except I can’t tell them that,” she said. “The official story is that a woman went missing, with a dog. If word got out that a little boy was with her, it would be a national news story.”

  “And if word got out the little boy was a hellhound shifter, that would be an international news story. Or an interplanetary news story. Imagine the Martians who could be reading about it right now over their morning coffee, or whatever they drink on Mars. Over their Martian coffee that they serve with marshmallow topping.”

  “Don’t,” Zoey said grumpily. “Just... don’t. No jokes.”

  I gave her a one-armed hug. “I’m worried about Corvin, too. Just as much as you are. You know I deal with stressful situations by making my delightfully humorous observations.”

  She grumbled something under her breath as she violently mashed the soft-boiled eggs with the back of her fork.

  I retreated to a safe distance while she took out her frustrations on the breakfast.

  * * *

  Zoey had just driven away in Foxy Pumpkin—all tires fixed, inflated, and worki
ng perfectly—when another car pulled up in front of the house.

  A man in a gray suit stepped out. He did a double-take when he saw me standing on the porch in my pajama pants.

  “You knew I was coming?” Bentley asked as he walked up the pathway to the house.

  I started to say something glib, but it caught in my throat. Watching my daughter drive away for her first day at work had stirred something.

  “Zoey just left for work at the museum,” I said. “I was planning to stand here on the porch a few more minutes, then go inside and cry for a while.”

  He shuffled back a few steps and gave me a look of genuine surprise. He hadn’t expected such honesty.

  I was surprised, too, until I remembered the oath I’d sworn to him the day before. My word is my bond. It wasn’t just lip service. The bond would fade over time, and it could even be overridden, but it took great effort for a supernatural to break a vow once given.

  “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your process,” Bentley said.

  “No worries. I don’t feel like crying anymore,” I said brightly. “Funny how talking about your feelings puts them into tidy little boxes so you don’t have to feel them so much.” I glanced over at the house next door—the blue one, where the Moore family lived. “Any news?”

  “No news. Still no ransom call, either. How about here?” He lowered his voice. “Any visitors?”

  He meant ghosts. “Not yet, which I’ll take as good news.” I pointed to my open doorway with my thumb. “Do you need a hand with anything? Let me grab my purse and make sure the cat has food, then I’m all yours for the day.”

  He rubbed his chin, which was showing dark stubble. He’d been up all night. His eyes didn’t show any dark circles, but the detective wouldn’t show the usual signs of having been up all night. Not since he’d gained supernatural powers. His kind was energized by staying up overnight, especially on moonless nights. According to my Monster Manual, he was on the opposite schedule of wolf and dog shifters, who were energized by the moon and not its absence.