Ghost Mysteries & Sassy Witches (Cozy Mystery Multi-Novel Anthology)

by Неизвестный

  “Not exactly,” I said distractedly. I couldn't tell Frank about my aunt's visit earlier that morning, or her subsequent hissy fit over a couple of streaky words on my bathroom mirror.

  Frank asked, “Then what's on your mind, pretty lady?”

  I lied, “Just a case of the Mondays, I'm afraid. Another coffee and I'll be myself again.”

  Frank waggled his eyebrows, which he'd recently re-tinted pink to match his hair. “You're not just distracted. Are you twitterpated?” He gasped. “You've been getting neighborly with that big piece of beefcake who lives next door. Chet Moore. Girl, if I were you, I'd sure like some more of Chet, ha-hah.”

  “Oh, Frank.” I gave him a wry smile. “Please say that pun every day. I'm sure it will never, ever get old.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “I'm not too good for lowbrow humor.”

  We were both in the staff lounge, taking our morning break together. Kathy wouldn't be in until the afternoon, and things had been quiet that morning. We had a page covering the desk, and she appeared to be sleeping on her feet, like a sheep or a cow. Frank and I had been joking about inventing a new game called Page Tipping. It was really funny. I swear. You had to be there.

  Now we were experimenting with the perfect blend of chocolate and coffee to make a superior mocha. Frank felt white chocolate syrup was the key. I had strong feelings about my blend, which used a smoky Earl Grey tea in place of coffee.

  He handed me a new sample to taste, served in a tiny taste-test-sized mug that I suspected doubled as a Christmas tree ornament.

  The sweet, hot, caffeinated concoction did soothe and invigorate me at once.

  “Have you kissed him yet?” Frank asked.

  “No, but I was helping him look over some paperwork over the weekend, and on Sunday he did that thing, where the guy removes a stray eyelash from your cheek and tells you to blow on it.”

  Frank burst out laughing. “How romantic.”

  I gave Frank some squinty-eyed, triple-strength side eye. “These things take time, you ding-dong.”

  He sighed contentedly. “I do love gossip on a Monday morning. It makes working for a living almost bearable.”

  I took another sip of the mocha. The white chocolate made it taste like liquid marshmallow.

  “Frank, you seem like the type of person people confide their secrets in.”

  He looked excited. “Yes. And?”

  “Nothing happened with Chet, I swear. You'll be the first to know. I'm actually wondering if you ever heard anything about Winona Vander Zalm. Specifically about any enemies she made.”

  “She could be catty,” Frank said. “We were at the big Save the Voles and Holes Event, and—”

  I interrupted, “Sorry, did you say Save the Voles and Holes? What are voles?”

  “Voles look like mice. They're cute.”

  “People need to save them?”

  “Well, the voles were the only living things interested in the golf course for a few years. The new owners found a way to humanely relocate them, and fix up the golf course at the same time. Relax, Zara, it all worked out for the best. Totally humane.” He waved one hand in a circle. “Anyway, Winona was in a real witchy mood that night because two other people showed up wearing the same pantsuit as hers, with one of those people being yours truly.” He patted his chest.

  “That sucks when someone shows up in the same outfit,” I said.

  “The other lady was a good sport about it, and she posed for a picture with me. Winona was too snobby, though.” He held his hand to mouth and stage-whispered, “I wore it best, by the way, in case you were wondering.”

  “Of course you did,” I said. “Do you have a copy of that picture? I'd love to see it.”

  “I'll check when I get home,” he said.

  “How about long-standing feuds? Did she have any major rivals on the socialite scene?”

  Frank narrowed his eyes and looked me up and down. “What's got you so curious?”

  I shrugged. “I'm living in her old house now. Humor me, will you? I promise to get a real hobby soon.”

  “Long-standing feuds,” Frank said. “Hmm. Let me check the ol' database.”

  He tilted his head and looked up as he scratched his chin. I'd seen him do this gesture a dozen times while helping patrons look up reference materials. He claimed to have a database of book titles in his brain. After a minute, he'd frown and say, “Let me just double check something.” Then he'd do a keyword search or two on the computer and say something like, “Just as I suspected. We have two books on that subject.”

  “Hmm,” Frank said as he slowly reached for his laptop and opened it. He tapped away on the keyboard. “Yes, there it is,” he said.

  “You're amazing,” I cooed.

  He turned the screen to face me. A search on Winona's name had brought up a book about Halloween-themed foods for children, co-written by W. Vander Zalm and Z. Riddle.

  “Very funny,” I said. “You set this up as a prank, didn't you?”

  He pointed to the shelf-location field, nodded, and took off at a speedwalk pace. He returned three minutes later with the book in hand, breathing heavily.

  “It's her,” he said. “And the co-writer is your aunt.”

  I opened the book and flipped to the author photos on the inner flaps. The photos were at least twenty years old, but there was Zinnia staring back at me, looking like my twin. The picture of Winona Vander Zalm was the same one I'd seen before, online accompanying newspaper articles about her fundraising work.

  “Zinnia never told me about this,” I said. “You'd think it would have come up.”

  Frank took the book and looked it over carefully before tapping away at his keyboard some more.

  “She might have been embarrassed,” Frank said. “This was book one of a series, and even though the publisher named upcoming titles, none of them were published. Sales of the first print run were disappointing.” He patted the closed cover. “This specific copy has only been borrowed a dozen times in twice as many years here. It misses the bi-annual purges only because someone checks it out during the culling period.” He tapped the keys again. “And it was always borrowed by Winona Vander Zalm, so now that she's gone, it'll be the end for the book.”

  I grabbed the book and clutched it to my chest. “No!”

  Frank chuckled. “Zara, you can't save them all. Culling day will come, as sure as rain will fall as soon as you've washed your car, and as sure as that page is currently sleeping on her feet.” He tiptoed toward the open door. “Come on. You push her and I'll catch her.”

  I held up my hand, fingers outstretched. “Five more minutes. Let me have a look at this book, and I'll be right out.”

  He disappeared, leaving me with the cookbook.

  It was, sadly, not a book of spells or secret magical rituals. Even the recipes were rather ordinary—the sort you'd find in magazines. Fill a latex glove with red juice to make a bloody hand to float in the punch bowl. Stick toothpicks into coconut balls to make spooky spiders. Got zombies? Make a gelatin-based salad with elbow macaroni in a bowl, then flip it upside down to create a jiggly brain. (Okay, that last one was pretty cool.)

  I continued flipping through the book, stopping when I encountered a page titled KILLER DINNER.

  I froze, my breath caught in my throat. Those were the words on my bathroom mirror. The words that had put Zinnia into such a tizzy.

  Zoey and I had coaxed out a few details about her spell-gone-awry. She'd been attempting to open a portal to communicate with Winona Vander Zalm—real-time communication, and not just the patchy old recorded greetings I'd been channeling.

  Zoey swore on her favorite leggings that she hadn't been the one to finger the message on the mirror, so we'd concluded it was a message from the spirit.

  And now, here I was, perusing a recipe labeled KILLER DINNER. Was this page in front of me a big, honking clue or what? And if it was a clue, how could Winona have known I would find her book today of all days? My brai
n churned through possibilities and probabilities. Was that smoke in my nostrils? I was thinking too hard. Overthinking, as the kids today might say.

  I gave my head a shake and read the recipe, which was basically just a pot roast with sprigs of herbs jabbed in to make it resemble a porcupine. The accompanying photograph looked an awful lot like roadkill. I grimaced. It wasn't surprising the book's first print run had sold poorly. The audience of cookbook buyers wanting to recreate the look of roadkill is a very niche market.

  One chunk of text near the bottom of the page did catch my eye.

  It read: A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, but your beau will be telling all the guys at work about the fabulous KILLER DINNER you made for him!

  Was this the clue? Was Winona winking at me and telling me her former beau was the one who murdered her? The only boyfriend I knew of, who was still alive, lived next door. Don Moore. He'd claimed to have made the beast with two backs with her.

  On a hunch, I checked the book's index. Nope. It contained no recipe for a Beast With Two Backs, but there was a Beast With Orange Sauce.

  Weren't a significant number of homicides crimes of passion? Did the killer live right next door?

  I licked my lips and said his name out loud. “Don Moore.”

  Nothing happened.

  “Ms. Vander Zalm? Can you hear me? Show me a sign. Let me know if Don Moore was the one who killed you.”

  Nothing happened, and then something did.

  My stomach flip-flopped.

  Either the ghost was naming her killer, or I'd overdone it with the mochas.

  Suddenly, the pain in my guts was overwhelming. I slammed the book shut and ran for the staff washroom.

  What were my guts trying to tell me? Were we all, as Aunt Zinnia had whimpered, going to die?

  Chapter 25

  Around two o'clock, Kathy came to check on me in the staff lounge. I'd used a blanket to build myself a fort in the Grumpy Corner. I was shoeless and curled up in the fetal position.

  Kathy pushed up her round owl-eye glasses and asked, “Whooooo did this to you?”

  “Frank,” I said. “But it's not his fault. I should know my mocha limit. He didn't overserve me, I swear.”

  She reached into the blanket fort and pressed a cool hand on my forehead. The gesture was incredibly motherly and soothing. I liked Kathy. I still felt bad about throwing away her acorn jelly, but at least my diabolical intestinal adventures were finally bringing us together.

  “Zara you're feverish,” she said. “You should go home early. You don't need to finish your shift.”

  “I already punched out my timecard,” I said. “I'm waiting to get up the strength to walk home.”

  She took me by the hand and tugged. “Get up. I'll drive you home. I've got to run some errands anyway. Frank and the page can hold down the fort a bit longer.”

  I groaned and got up. Slowly, I pulled on my coat and used trial-and-error to get my shoes on the corresponding feet. When I was finally ready to leave, I looked up and saw Kathy leafing through the Spooky Gatherings for Ghouls Cookbook.

  “This old book,” she said with a chuckle. “That crazy woman always checked it out during our circulation review. What a kook she was.” She held it up. “Are you checking this out?”

  I told her I'd intended to, and she disappeared to run it through the checkout system officially.

  Five minutes later, I was strapped into Kathy Carmichael's car, which was slightly more luxurious than a broomstick. The brown vinyl seats had been repaired with duct tape, and by the sound the engine made when Kathy started it up, those weren't the only makeshift repairs.

  Kathy gave me an apologetic look. “I can afford a better car, honestly. The library pays me enough. I just like this old thing. It's sort of a nest on wheels.” She waved to the backseat. It contained an array of crafting supplies in stacking plastic containers, as well as loose baskets of twine, fuzzy pipe cleaners, scissors, and what most people would generally refer to as crap.

  “A nest on wheels,” I said. “I can see that.”

  Kathy shifted into gear, and the nest emitted interesting sounds and smells as we began our journey toward my home.

  “Thanks again for inviting me to your wonderful dinner party,” Kathy said.

  “And thank you for coming. I don't know how much longer I'll be in the entertaining mood, but it was great to have everyone I know in Wisteria all in one place at the same time.”

  “By next year, you'll need a bigger house,” she said.

  “You're too kind. If I'm still here in a year, I'll worry about it then.”

  She laughed. “Of course you'll be here! Why would you ever leave? Nobody leaves Wisteria. The only way out is to die.” She turned and shot me a knowing look. “But you don't have to worry about that, now that you have the house. You're living in the Fountain of Youth.”

  “Kathy, this might be my recent dehydration causing auditory hallucinations, but did you just say my house is the Fountain of Youth?”

  “That's what I said. I'm joking, of course. I might be a nutty old bird misses her sons so much that she throws herself into craft projects, but I'm not crazy. Not like old Winona Vander Zalm, with her wild claims about witchcraft and that old house.”

  “What did she say, exactly?”

  We stopped for a red light. The cloud of stench the old car was emitting caught up with us.

  Kathy said, “Ms. Vander Zalm told me once, in confidence, that she was never going to die. Not ever. She said the house had magical energy that protected her and kept her young. She claimed she was a lot older than she looked.”

  “That's so strange,” I said. “Why did she tell you?”

  Kathy shifted gears, and we sailed into fresh air again.

  “She was lonely, I suppose. Or maybe she wanted to boast about it. What's the point in being a hundred and something if you can't tell anyone?”

  “You believed her? You think my house has magic?”

  Kathy laughed. “Who would believe such nonsense? Not me. I believe in research and knowledge.”

  “But there are countless references to Fountains of Youth in literature throughout time. What if it's real? What if there's far more to this world than meets the eye, and fiction is closer to reality than you think?”

  Kathy snorted. “But magical fountains are just an idea. Like the plucky underdog heroine in a young adult novel who battles a mighty monster and singlehandedly wins freedom for her people. Or the handsome man in a romance novel who doesn't notice a woman's stretch marks.”

  I tried to laugh along with her, but the dry sounds coming from my parched throat were less than convincing.

  We reached my house, where Kathy said, “Would you like me to help you inside? Whip up some chicken soup?”

  “Thanks, but you've already done more than enough.”

  “How's that?” She tilted her head and pushed up her round glasses. “Zara, you don't look well at all. If I have to carry you in there and up to bed, so help me, I will.”

  “Nope!” I fumbled blindly for the door handle and cracked the door open. “You've helped more than enough by letting me go home early and giving me a ride.” I jumped out of the car, my legs wobbly and weak but still holding me up. “See you around!”

  “Tomorrow?” Her gaze flitted between me and the house—the Red Witch House.

  I snapped my fingers. “Good idea! I'll see you tomorrow in the big building with all the books.”

  “I'm coming in with you,” she said.

  “Nope!” I flung the car door shut and thumped the roof twice, the way people thump on taxis in movies to send them away.

  To my surprise, it worked. The car immediately sped away. I thought I heard Kathy screaming, but I told myself it was just worn brake pads or old fan belts in the car's engine squealing.

  I stumbled up the stairs to the porch, let myself in, and locked the door behind me.

  Zoey would be home from school soon.

  I grabbed m
y phone and made a call.

  “It's me,” I said. “I know who murdered Winona Vander Zalm. I also know why, and I've got some ideas about how, but I need your help.”

  Chapter 26

  Saturday

  Five days had passed since the Monday I'd made two important discoveries—the identity of Winona Vander Zalm's killer and my personal limit for number of mochas consumed in one hour. It had been quite an upsetting start to the week. I hadn't been able to even look at a piece of chocolate until Wednesday.

  As for the killer, today was the day my theory would be put to the test.

  Chet and I stood on the sidewalk in front of the nondescript office building.

  He turned to me, his green eyes bedazzling. I'd never imagined that anything other than a rhinestone-applicator could be bedazzling, but Chet's green eyes were exactly that.

  “Zara Riddle, are you ready for this?”

  “Chet Moore, I'm ready for more things than I can even imagine, and I have quite the imagination.”

  He smiled. “I'll take that as a yes.” He took my hand in his. “We should hold hands.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Schmoopsie Bear.”

  He recoiled visibly. I made a mental note that Schmoopsie Bear was too far. It was good to know the man had some limits.

  We walked inside the building, swinging our arms like a couple of lovebirds, and gave our names to the receptionist. She led us down the hall to a meeting room with glass walls. Chet held my hand the whole way. We let go to slide into our seats at the metal-and-glass table. He quickly caught my hand again once we were seated.

  “Darn that glass table,” he said. “You might have to hold my hand forever.”

  “Forever?” I let out a laugh that sounded like a cackle. “How horrible!” My cackle continued, seemingly with a mind of its own. Was that a witch thing? Would I be cackling all the time? Was cackling inevitable, like the pudge you get over the waistline of your jeans on the day of your thirtieth birthday? Life was full of so many inevitabilities.

  The real estate agent, Dorothy Tibbits, came into the room with her pigtails bouncing and a huge grin on her inflated lips