“I just want you to be happy,” I said, shaking out the patchwork quilt and then tucking it in around her. “Happy and safe.”
A male voice behind me said, “Safe? You'll have to try harder.”
I whipped around, my hands raised to defend myself.
There was someone in the room with us. Chet's father, Don.
“Grampa Don,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
He sat like a coiled rattlesnake in the recliner, in the darkened corner of the room. I could have sworn I'd seen him leave with the other guests. I glanced around the room, making note of the objects that were light enough for me to lift with my magic and still heavy enough to do some damage.
Chapter 19
“Your home is very comfortable,” Don said, shifting the recliner into the upright position.
“Are you threatening me? What did you mean about me having to try harder to keep my daughter safe?”
He rubbed his chin and looked over at Zoey, who was sleeping soundly on the sofa, her strawberry-blonde hair fanned out on the soft velvet pillow.
In the low light of the room, Don's gray hair was the color of the ashes at the end of a burned cigarette. He'd seemed like a sweet, harmless old man when he was bartering for pork products and complaining about the weather. Now, after uttering a veiled threat inside my home, his facial features took on knife-edge sharpness. But I had teeth of my own.
“Either talk or hit the road,” I growled. I used my powers to click the nearby lamp's brightness up a notch. It wasn't the same as shining an interrogation light in someone's face, but it was better than nothing.
Don gave me the smallest of nods. “If you want to keep your family safe, you need to open your eyes,” he said. “Chet can't handle this homicide investigation on his own. He's blinded by his own ideas.”
Since Don wasn't getting up from the chair anytime soon—and who could blame him? It was a very comfortable chair—I pushed over my daughter's feet and took a seat at the end of the sofa.
“How's Chet blinded?” I asked. “Wait. Are you also a shifter?”
His sharp features didn't budge. “Magic runs in families.”
“Are you an X-Files investigator?”
The corner of Don's mouth twitched up. “They weren't wrong about your sense of humor. You certainly do have a novel way of looking at things. I suppose having your powers lay dormant for so many years has altered you.”
I clenched my jaw. He knew about my late-blooming powers? How? I was dying to ask but didn't want to give anything away. Besides, it might have been a lucky guess.
“You don't know what you're talking about,” I said coolly. “Let's get to why you were sitting in my dark living room like some cheesy James Bond villain. Do you have a message for me? A mission? A potion request?”
“I want you to help Chet with his investigation,” he said. “Lend him your career skills.”
“How? I'm a librarian, not a detective. And yes, I already checked the library for reference materials on all things supernatural. I'm sure it comes as no surprise to you that the Wisteria Public Library, funded by municipal taxes, doesn't carry a huge selection of leather-bound books of spells and prophecies.”
“Zara, you were summoned here for a reason.”
“Summoned?” My impatience bubbled up. I wanted to shake Don Moore until the truth came out. The recliner began to shift and tremble.
The ashen-haired man shot me an amused eyebrow-lift.
The recliner began to rock, reclining back creakily and then jerking back upright again. I couldn't control it. I wanted the chair to shake. I wanted it to snap together like the jaws of a crocodile and squeeze the truth out of Don.
Don snapped his fingers and barked, “Enough!”
The recliner obeyed and stopped its wild-bronco bucking. Next to me on the couch, Zoey whimpered and rolled over but didn't wake.
“Did you do that?” I asked Don.
He leaned forward and groaned as he pulled himself out of the comfortable chair. I suspected his old-man noises and slow movements were nothing more than an act, a ruse to make people underestimate the older man with the grumpy mouth and sharp eyes.
“It's past my bedtime,” he said with a yawn.
“Don't go yet. Would you like a cup of coffee? More dessert? You haven't told me how I'm supposed to help Chet. I've tried talking to the spirit of Winona Vander Zalm. I've asked her to tell me if she was murdered, and if so, by whom, but she's terrible at communicating. Every time I try to get information, I wind up at the store buying spices and gourmet things I can't pronounce.”
“What would a homicide detective do?”
Without hesitation, I answered, “Follow the money. Find out who benefits from her death and check their alibis.”
Don turned to give me a nod on his way to the front door. “Exactly,” he said. “Her main asset was this home, which was sold to you.”
“It was my money,” I said with a gasp. My blood ran cold. The down payment I'd proudly amassed over sixteen years of scrimping and saving might have contributed to a sweet old woman's death.
As my mind raced with paranoid thoughts, I felt the icy embrace of the home's former owner wrap around my heart. I was on the right track, and the chill was Winona's terrifying way of encouraging me.
“She had no kids,” I said. “Did she have a will? Who inherited her estate?”
Don reached for the doorhandle and smiled. “Winona Vander Zalm specified in her will that everything would go to the nice family next door. The Moore family.”
He yanked open the door and stepped out into the darkness. The motion-sensitive porch light came on with a blast of yellow light and immediately shattered with a pop and a hiss. Don was a shadow.
“One more thing,” the shadow said. “Don't tell Chet about this conversation.”
“But—”
He waved his hand, and my words bottlenecked in my throat like a ten-car pileup on the Kennedy Expressway at rush hour.
Shadowy Don said, “If I'd wanted him to know, I would have joined your four-hour conversation in the dining room rather than letting all the talk about feelings put me to sleep.”
I snorted. “It's healthy to talk about your feelings.”
“Zara, I think you have a lot of potential. As a witch, and as someone on my good side. Don't blabber about this conversation and get yourself on my bad side.”
The tone of his voice was as dark as his shadowed face. I nodded mutely.
And then he was gone.
Chapter 20
Grampa “Hide in the Dark Like a Cheesy James Bond Villain” Don Moore didn't say anything about not sharing our conversation with my daughter.
“Zoey,” I whispered. “There's breaking news. Beep-beep-boop-boop-breaking-news. Wake up.”
She lifted her head just enough to free her pillow and pull it back down on top of her head. She was next to me, hogging the center of my queen-sized bed and squeezing me toward the edge, like the notorious bed-hog she was. She was sleeping on top of my covers and still wearing last night's clothes under the quilt she'd dragged upstairs from the sofa. She must have woken in the living room and decided my bed was the place to be, which actually was convenient for me.
I craned my neck and checked the time. Noon, right on the dot. I'd gotten five hours of sleep, which would have been a luxury back when I was working full-time, raising a pre-teen, and completing my Master's degree in Library Science.
From under the pillow, Zoey moaned, “You and Corvin's dad were looking friendly last night.”
“He has a name,” I said. “Are you calling him Corvin's dad because it's the least sexy way to describe him and you're secretly trying to sabotage any romance potential? Don't answer that. I don't want to know.”
“Less paranoia, more news,” she said sleepily.
I yanked the pillow away so I could watch her reactions. I breathlessly told her about Grampa Don hiding in the living room, listening in on my conversation with Che
t, and then giving his ominous warnings about keeping my family safe. Zoey frowned and nodded for me to keep talking. I told her about his request for me to help Chet with the investigation, as well as the big kicker.
She'd been yawning, and the news of the inheritance made her stop, mid-yawn. “What? The Moore family got all the money from her estate?”
“My money,” I said, sitting up and tapping my chest at the neckline of my sleepshirt. “My hard-earned money.” I felt my eyes welling up. The whole situation was feeling hopelessly tangled, and I couldn't push away these new feelings of responsibility and guilt.
“Mom, don't be sad,” she said softly. “If that silly real estate agent hadn't sold the house to you, she would have sold it to someone else eventually. Then they'd have a ghost, and what are the odds that person would be a witch? Let alone a witch with amazing spirit-magnet powers. If you think about it, you're the best possible person to have bought this house.” She pulled herself upright and stretched while looking around the room. “Besides, it's a delightful house, and it loves having us inside it.” She gave me a confused look. “Should that be inside her? Are houses feminine? Ships and cars are feminine.”
“La maison,” I said. “Feminine. And what are you talking about? Has the house been talking to you?” I made a spooky face. “Do the walls whisper?”
Zoey shrugged. “Just a feeling.” She rolled out of the bed and whipped away her blanket along with all my warm bedcovers. “Up and at 'em!”
“Five more minutes,” I pleaded, trying to grab the blankets back.
“Nope,” she said. “You get up and think up some excuse to go next door. If Don wants you to help Chet, and our ghost friend wants her death avenged, and you like making kissy faces at your new boyfriend, then it's like killing three birds with one stone.” She grabbed my last bit of comfort—my pillow—and pulled it out of reach. “Now march yourself into the bathroom, hose off some of that makeup, and go next door to borrow a cup of avocado juice, which is… totally a real thing and not nonsense I just made up.” She pointed at the door to the bathroom. “Go!”
“Avocado juice?” Chet stood in the doorway of his blue house, frowning at me.
“Zoey says it's a real thing,” I said. “But if you're not up on the coolest, hippest juice blends, I guess any juice will do. Pineapple. Orange. Pineapple-orange medley. Any type of medley.”
Chet stepped back and waved me inside. “We do have juice.”
“Perfect.”
“It's frozen, so I'll have to mix it with water. And it might actually be pink lemonade.”
“Made from pink lemons?”
He glanced back over his shoulder as we walked toward his kitchen. “Are you trying to trick me with logic?”
“Not at all,” I said. “In fact, I want to help you. The avocado juice was just a made-up excuse to get inside your house.”
“No kidding.” He opened the freezer compartment of a deluxe-looking stainless steel fridge and surveyed the contents. He had a half-dozen flavors of frozen juice.
“That one looks good.” I used my magic to lift a container of orange concentrate. “You can't go wrong with orange.”
He skewered the container mid-air with one quick claw.
“You're fast with those things,” I said.
He glanced over at the kitchen window, frowning. “I should be more careful. My father warned me not to get reckless showing off for you, but I can't seem to help myself. Zara, you have a power over me that has nothing to do with the supernatural.”
My cheeks warmed at his compliment. When he'd left my house at just after four o'clock that morning, he'd seemed intent on closing himself off. Now, though, he was warm again. And darn it if a man alternating between hot and cold wasn't like catnip to me.
They say people with no boundaries enjoy flinging themselves at people with rigid boundaries. As soon as my powers got strong enough for me to lift my own body weight, perhaps I would literally fling myself at him. Oh, how I longed to be caught in those strong, muscular arms of his—provided he kept his claws retracted.
Chet used a handheld blender to whip the juice so it was icy cold with suspended crystals. He handed me a glass, caught my eye, and asked, “What devious things are you thinking about right now?”
“Nothing devious,” I said, looking around the kitchen. “Nice renovation. Sort of a farmhouse chic thing. Very sexy. And your layout is a mirror image of my house.”
He rinsed the blender under an enormous faucet. “You can't go wrong with a huge, concrete sink,” he said.
“No kidding. You could dismantle a body in there.”
His nostrils widened and his upper lip twitched. “What are you implying?”
I tipped back my glass of orange juice and chugged it noisily.
When I was done, I said brightly, “Great juice. You can taste that Florida sunshine.” I set the glass down on the chic polished-concrete countertop and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “So, what's on the agenda for today? I've got some time on my hands. I want to help with your investigation.”
His upper lip was still deciding whether to go full-snarl. “How can you help? Has the spirit been giving you new information?”
“Yes!” I held my finger in the air triumphantly. “Winona Vander Zalm wants me to make sure the money from the sale of the house got to her heirs without any complications. Her heirs, who happen to be…” I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples with two fingers. “The Moo Family? Winona, do you mean cows? For someone who was an animal-rights activist, you sure know a lot of recipes for veal.”
“Zara, what are you doing?”
I shushed Chet and continued, “What's that, Winona? Close but not quite? Okay, but spell it out. M-O-O-R-E. That's funny. Do you mean the next-door neighbors in the blue house? The Moore Family?”
“Hmm,” he said.
I opened my eyes and gave Chet a curious look. “Is it true?”
“She knew about my work,” he said. His tone was low and cold, guarded.
“I don't understand. Did Winona Vander Zalm will you her entire fortune to fund the investigation of her murder? If she could see the future, why didn't she just avoid getting murdered?”
“She wasn't a witch,” Chet said, his face and body as tense as his voice.
“Then what was she?” My senses buzzed. Something was creeping up on me. I glanced over my shoulder. Nobody was behind me.
“Careless,” he said. “But that's for me to worry about. Not you. I have everything under control.”
The buzzing of my senses became audible, and then a cool silk scarf slipped over me. I relaxed and let the spirit take hold of my body.
“No, you don't have everything under control,” Winona snapped, using my voice. “Chet, you boys need a woman over here to calm down the masculine energy.”
He shook his head and took a step back. “Ms. Vander Zalm?”
“That's why I'm willing you my fortune. I know I shouldn't care what happens after I'm dead, but I'd rather not see my life's savings go to the government after I worked so hard to keep it from them all these years. Take the cash and go on a vacation. Start an education fund for Corvin. That little boy needs all the help he can get. Such a strange child.” An icy chill ran through me. “Why not start a scholarship fund for young witches and all the other beasties? Use my money for something good, Chet. And then use your life for something good as well. Don't argue, my dear. I have spoken.”
The chill in my body turned to electrical pops, energy dissipating. I trembled. She was gone, her recorded words replayed.
I rubbed my neck. “That was her, Chet. She's gone now. Why didn't you ask her who killed her? You had your chance.”
“She couldn't have told us,” he said glumly. “The spirits aren't much more than echoes. You should know that.”
“Right,” I said, nodding. “Like the holograms in the original Star Wars. I know all about that. She must have said all those things to you some other time, right? Do you re
member when? Maybe it's significant.”
He looked up pensively. “I remember it was right here in this kitchen, about a year ago. It was the day she met with her lawyer to change her will. I begged her not to make me her beneficiary, but she didn't listen.”
“Does your secret employer know about this? I'm no lawyer, but it sounds like a wee bit of a conflict of interest, investigating a murder when you're the prime suspect.”
He gave me a hurt look. “You can't actually think I'm a suspect.”
“I don't think that, of course. But what about your boss at the FBI? The guy with the shiny head. What's his name again? Skinner?”
He shook his head. “I don't work for the imaginary FBI X-Files.”
I leaned across the counter and rested my chin on my hands. “So, what did you do with the cash? Did you dump all of the old lady's house money into this renovation? These finishings don't look cheap.”
He looked offended and flattered at the same time. “I've renovated this house over the years, mostly using my own two hands.”
“What about your father? Does Grampa Don like getting his hands dirty? Would you say he's a hands-on guy? Always getting into your business?”
He straightened up and squared his shoulders. “The men of the Moore family stick together.” He puffed out his chest. “And as for the money from the estate, I've put it in a charitable fund to help young people. Not that there was very much money left on the table after the smoke cleared.”
“She had debts?”
“Ms. Vander Zalm's love of entertaining would have bankrupted her eventually. She'd taken out several loans against the house over the years. If I'd realized the full extent of it, I wouldn't have instructed Dorothy Tibbits to take your ridiculous lowball offer. You practically stole the place.”
I jerked my head up and took a more assertive stance, hands on hips. “Excuse me? Just because I know how to drive a bargain doesn't mean I stole the place. I bought it fair and square on the open market. And clearly my offer was better than all the others.”
“There were no other offers,” he said. “Dorothy thought I should wait. She said spring was too hectic and there were too many other houses on the market. She suggested pulling it and re-listing in November. I think she was being lazy, or distracted by trying to sell her own property.”
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