Wisteria Wrinkle

by Angela Pepper

  Margaret gasped. “This is good stuff, Zinnia. What happened next?”

  “I don’t know. Angelo’s entries stopped just when things were getting good. Another gentleman took over the record keeping. Someone named Mitch Hamilton.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “I’m not surprised. He’s pretty dull. He doesn’t write anything about ghosts or monsters, just logs of deliveries and payments.”

  “Boo.”

  “And we can’t ask Angelo about the past, because he’s passed away. I already pulled up his obituary to check.”

  “Darn. What about the girl with amnesia?”

  “Also deceased. But before that, she became his wife, Diablo Wakeful.”

  “Diablo?” Margaret let out a low whistle. “Diablo is Spanish for devil, right?”

  “Yup. And let’s not forget that the guy’s name is Angelo.”

  “That is uncanny. Angelo married Diablo. The angel and the devil. Then they had offspring who turned out to be gorgons. It has to be true, because you simply can’t make this stuff up!”

  “Do you think we should talk to Chloe and see what the family has to say?”

  “Hmm. She sounded a bit touchy about the topic. We should wait until she and I are much better friends first.”

  “And how’s that going?” Margaret had been trying to befriend the gorgon without much success.

  “We’re going to meet up for coffee soon,” Margaret said, her voice high and tight.

  “If only there were someone else we could talk to,” Zinnia mused. “Someone who was around when the building was being constructed.”

  Both were quiet for a moment, then said, in unison, “Queenie Gilbert.”

  “Because she worked on-site,” Margaret said. “She said she knew the building better than we did.”

  “She must know something,” Zinnia said. “I hope she’s well enough to talk to us and we’re not too late.”

  “We shouldn’t wait. Let’s go see her tomorrow. My husband has the kids for the weekend.”

  “What do you mean? Did he take them somewhere?”

  “Yeah,” Margaret said. “Camping. I, uh, didn’t want to go. I can protect my house from brainweevils, but not a whole campsite.” She cleared her throat.

  “I understand,” Zinnia said. She didn’t care for camping, either. “What time tomorrow morning do you want to meet up?”

  There was a long pause, and then Margaret said, “I’m coming over there right now. I need to see that log book myself. I’ll stay overnight.”

  “You will?”

  “Sure. Thanks. Your guest room will probably give me nightmares, but I don’t think I’ll sleep much here at the house by myself.”

  “See you soon,” Zinnia said. She wasn’t sure why Margaret was so eager to come over, let alone how a beautiful guest room decorated in cheery florals would give anyone nightmares, but she was excited to share the log book with another witch.

  Chapter 10

  On Saturday morning, Zinnia Riddle yawned as she slid into the driver’s seat of her car.

  Margaret Mills, however, was anything but tired. Her gray eyes were bright, and she had a bounce in her step as she rounded the car and hopped—literally hopped—into the passenger seat.

  “You sure have a lot of energy,” Zinnia commented.

  “Why wouldn’t I? This is so exciting. We’re actually doing something, Zinnia, not sitting around in the back of Maisy’s coffee shop talking about doing something.”

  Zinnia yawned again. After they’d spoken on the phone the night before, Margaret had arrived at Zinnia’s house quite late. Rather than going straight to bed like sensible women, they’d stayed up reading the 1955 construction log book kept by Angelo Wakeful.

  When they did finally head upstairs for bed, Margaret kept Zinnia awake until dawn, talking and giggling like a pre-teen at her first slumber party. Separating Margaret in the guest room hadn’t helped, because Margaret simply yelled down the hallway about whatever thought had just popped into her head. The only way Zinnia could get to sleep was to surreptitiously cast a sound bubble spell around her bed.

  “I just wish we were more rested,” Zinnia said as she started the car engine.

  “Who cares about sleep! We actually have a mission, Zinnia. A mission! How long has it been?”

  “Since we had a mission? We did that location spell in January, and then we had our trip to Towhee Swamp. That was quite the mission.”

  “Exactly. It’s been months. Way too long.” Margaret fastened her seatbelt with a loud click. Even the click sounded cheerful.

  For the first time since Liza Gilbert had started working with them at the office, Zinnia could understand why Margaret found the blonde so irritating. Cheerful people were irritating. Especially in the morning.

  Zinnia put the car in gear but paused to yawn.

  Margaret filled the lull in conversation with more cheerfulness. “The swamp was so much fun!”

  “That’s not how I remember it, and certainly not what you said about it at the time.”

  “Sure, it was dark and cold and damp, but didn’t it feel great when we combined our forces and zapped that mean ol’ cat with our invisible powerball?”

  Zinnia recalled how powerful she’d felt in the hours following the attack in the swamp. It had felt good to zap the cougar. The power had gone to the witch’s head, though. She’d gotten cocky and fooled herself into believing she was invincible. First came pride, then the inevitable fall.

  Margaret punched Zinnia on the upper arm. “Stop overthinking, already! It’s good to feel powerful.”

  “Get out of my head, Margaret Mills.”

  “Admit that we make a good team,” Margaret said.

  Zinnia sighed. “Fine. We make a good team. That invisible powerball was perfect.”

  “That’s right.” Margaret bounced in the passenger seat, making the springs squeak. “Me and you, forever.”

  Zinnia turned the corner and drove in the direction of the hospital. They’d made a few phone calls before leaving the house to locate Queenie Gilbert. One nice thing about a small town was it didn’t take too long to track someone down.

  Zinnia hoped that Queenie was feeling well enough for visitors, and that they weren’t too late. One person they’d called was sad to inform them the woman had died already, only to be corrected by a friend who was standing nearby. Queenie must have been close to the end of her days.

  They arrived at the hospital and found out which wing and room the eldest Gilbert was in. Then they stopped by the gift shop so they wouldn’t show up empty-handed.

  As they picked out gifts, Margaret said, “I can’t say I blame the ol’ gal for refusing a surgery to put in a pacemaker. How would you like one of those things inside your body, zapping away at your heart?”

  “Shh,” Zinnia said, mindful of the other hospital visitors shopping for gifts. “I’d be fine with the surgery if I needed one. Modern pacemakers are very small, and the recovery is fast. Besides, it beats the alternative.”

  “Stop being so stoic. Admit that you wouldn’t like it one bit.”

  “Just because I don’t like something doesn’t mean I won’t do what ought to be done.”

  Margaret looked up from the patterned socks she’d been digging through. “But how do you know what’s supposed to be done if you don’t feel like doing it? Do you have a little voice that tells you?”

  Zinnia raised both eyebrows. “It’s called a conscience, Margaret. Don’t you have one?”

  Margaret snorted and went back to browsing the socks.

  Once they’d selected some gifts for Queenie Gilbert, they paid, and then applied more hand sanitizer. Being witches, their hands were already naturally antibacterial, and their saliva was probably a better disinfectant than whatever was in the sticky foam, but the dispenser was in a conspicuous place and not using it would have called attention to themselves. They finished rubbing the foam on their hands and proceeded to the elevator.r />
  Once they were inside the elevator, which was empty except for the two of them, Margaret lightly ran her fingertips over the buttons on the control panel.

  “Seven floors,” Margaret said.

  Zinnia waited, sensing there was more.

  Margaret continued, “When I was growing up, I always imagined that one day I would live in a luxury penthouse on the thirteenth floor. I shouldn’t have come to Wisteria, where the tallest building we have is seven floors.”

  “You couldn’t have lived on the thirteenth floor anyway. Most tall buildings skip the thirteenth floor due to superstition.”

  “Do they really? I thought that was just a movie thing.” Margaret continued to trace the buttons with her fingertips. “I’ll just have to find a proper building that has a thirteenth floor, then. A real one, not a thirteenth floor that calls itself the fourteenth.”

  “Oh? Are you planning to move away? I don’t know if a penthouse is the ideal place for raising four kids.”

  Margaret straightened up and stared at the floor indicator. “Let an old woman have her daydreams.”

  Zinnia scoffed. “You’re not old, Margaret. You’re younger than I am.” The elevator dinged and the doors opened. “Besides, you can’t leave me here in Wisteria all by myself.”

  “You won’t be alone. You have your shiny new family.”

  “But they might not stick around, and then what?”

  Margaret stepped out and shot a sly look over her shoulder at Zinnia. “You can buy the penthouse next door to mine.”

  “That sounds like an awfully large commitment considering I don’t even know what city this imaginary thirteen-story building is in.”

  Margaret shrugged. “Fine. If you want to be cautious, you can rent for a bit before you decide to buy.”

  “Sure,” Zinnia said, though she was anything but sure about what she was agreeing to.

  The elevator dinged again as its doors closed behind them. The two women made their way to Queenie Gilbert’s room, walking quietly out of respect for the patients and staff. Well, Zinnia walked quietly.

  Zinnia got a flash of déjà vu. The hospital room at the end of the hall was the exact same one Zinnia had visited earlier that year, when Detective Ethan Fung had been recovering from his injuries. She felt a pang of guilt for having all but forgotten about the man lately. Between the strange occurrences at City Hall and the antics of the other Riddles, Zinnia had not thought about Fung much.

  In a whisper, Margaret asked, “Have you heard from Ethan Fung lately?”

  “Stop reading my mind,” Zinnia said. That was the second time that morning. Did it come easier to Margaret when Zinnia was tired?

  “But have you heard from him? Did he go to Venice?”

  “Yes, he did. He sent me a postcard in March, or maybe April.”

  “I hate getting postcards,” Margaret said. “I always put them up on my fridge like a normal person, but I don’t like them one bit.”

  Zinnia was surprised by her friend’s bitterness. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Zinnia wondered, did she like receiving postcards? She gave it some thought. The answer was no. Not really. They were just a reminder of the fabulous adventures other people were having. Did anyone like getting postcards?

  “Nobody likes getting postcards,” Margaret said. “Nobody.”

  Zinnia didn’t bother telling Margaret to stay out of her head. There was no point.

  They reached the room and stopped at the doorway.

  Inside the room was the usual hospital furniture—some tables on wheels, a visitor’s chair, and one bed. The patient, Queenie Gilbert, lay on the bed. She was, contrary to at least one friend’s impression, still alive.

  Someone was sitting next to her in the visitor’s chair. A woman. When she looked up at the two witches, Margaret made an air-gulping sound. Zinnia felt her throat suddenly constrict.

  Sitting in the visitor chair was the mayor of Wisteria, Paula Paladini.

  Zinnia’s mind reeled at seeing Mayor Paladini outside of City Hall, as though someone had made a continuity error while editing Zinnia’s life and spliced a frame where it didn’t belong. She had never seen the mayor outside of their work building, not even at parades or the openings of new parks. For public events, the mayor always sent a delegate, along with the unspoken message that she was much too busy with important town business to pose for photos with comically large scissors.

  Ms. Paladini was over sixty, and attractive in the way people used to call handsome, due to her poise and dignity. She had icy blonde hair streaked with white, or possibly white hair streaked with blonde. She had an aristocratic nose, narrow with a high bridge. The contrast between her light hair, pale skin, and other features was startling. Her lips were a deep mahogany red the color of dried blood. Her eyes were such a dark brown they seemed to be, at least in the dim light of the hospital room, entirely black. As the ice-haired woman looked over the two witches, she bared her teeth in something of a smile, revealing more black and white contrast: bright teeth with a single dark gap in the center.

  Even seated, Paladini gave the impression of height and strength. The mayor always wore a pinstriped pantsuit with a crisp white shirt—every day, every season. She paired her suits with flat, soft-soled shoes. Even without heels she was still taller than most of the men at City Hall. As for her work, it was as impeccably black and white as her appearance. The mayor was highly respected by town residents, even the ones who disagreed with her policies. She worked tirelessly, putting in long hours and running through assistants and interns every few months. Sometimes it seemed Paula Paladini might not even exist outside of her office. She was the sort of exceptional mayor who deserved a much larger town.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” the mayor said, getting to her feet. “You can keep our friend company while I take care of some business.”

  She left without bothering with introductions, as though she knew exactly who Zinnia and Margaret were, as well as what they were up to, and had simply been biding her time until their pre-ordained arrival.

  “That was surprising,” Zinnia murmured to Margaret. They were still in the doorway, not yet in the room. Queenie hadn’t seemed to notice them yet.

  Margaret made a nonverbal choking sound, then asked, “Did that just happen, or am I hallucinating? You saw her too, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I saw Mayor Paladini. In black and white.”

  Margaret grabbed Zinnia’s arm and squeezed her elbow. “That woman scares me. I know the whole town loves her, but I wouldn’t be surprised if one day it comes out that she kidnapped a bunch of Dalmatians to make fur coats.”

  Zinnia pulled her elbow from Margaret’s tight grasp, and patted her on the shoulder. “There, there. I’m sorry that watching Disney’s One Hundred and One Dalmatians was such a traumatic experience for you.” This was familiar conversational territory for the two witches. Margaret had been comparing the mayor to the cartoon villainess Cruella De Vil for years.

  Margaret shuddered. “People shouldn’t wear fur coats. It’s just plain wrong.”

  “The mayor wasn’t wearing fur,” Zinnia said. “She was in one of her pinstripe suits, as usual.”

  “Even so, we don’t know what’s in her closet at home. Fur coats are murder.”

  “I know, I know,” Zinnia said soothingly. “I assure you, I would never wear a fur coat.” She had not gotten all of the details out of Margaret concerning her traumatic movie-watching experience. All Zinnia knew was that Margaret’s phobia involved the classic Disney animated movie from 1961 about lovable puppies being pursued by a nasty fashionista named Cruella De Vil. Margaret wasn’t old enough to have seen the film during its original theatrical release, so she must have watched a home video of the film at an impressionable age. A highly impressionable age.

  Zinnia glanced over her shoulder to make sure the mayor wasn’t in hearing range before whispering, “I haven’t seen the resemblance until now, but I must admit the mayor wou
ld look exactly like Cruella De Vil if she dyed one side of her hair black.”

  “Maybe one side of her hair is already naturally black, and she goes to the hairdresser to make it all white and blonde.”

  That didn’t seem likely to Zinnia, but she knew better than to argue with Margaret. She asked, “What do you think she was doing here?”

  “Maybe she’s a friend of the Gilbert family.” Margaret shuddered again. “I have the strangest feeling she was sitting in here waiting for us.”

  “Either I have the same feeling or one of us is picking up on the other one’s thoughts again.”

  There was a soft, polite cough inside the hospital room. Queenie Gilbert called out sweetly, “Hello? Is it time for lunch already? I’ve barely finished breakfast.”

  The two women entered the room and introduced themselves.

  “We both work with your granddaughter, Liza,” Margaret said. “I sit across from her.”

  “Liza is such a lovely young woman,” Zinnia said. “You must be so proud of her. She does excellent work.”

  “Well, she does some work,” Margaret said. “I’m not sure if I would call it excellent.”

  Zinnia elbowed Margaret to behave herself.

  Margaret presented the older woman with their gift shop purchases: a bouquet of flowers, a puzzle book, and a basket of miniature toiletries. The woman looked over the gifts with polite interest.

  Queenie Gilbert didn’t seem very regal in her blue gown and adjustable hospital bed. Her snowy-white hair was curled on one side and flat on the other. She looked small and fragile in the bed, barely a bump under the thin covers. She thanked her visitors for the thoughtful gifts with a sweet smile that almost—but not completely—masked her pain. Her big eyes flicked back and forth between Zinnia and Margaret.

  “You’re probably wondering why we’re here,” Zinnia said.

  Queenie replied with a vague, “Yes, dear?”

  “When you were at City Hall last month for lunch, you mentioned you knew your way around the place.”