by Неизвестный
“You two!” she exclaimed. “Married already? On Thursday? I should have known something was up at your dinner party last week.” She looked right at Chet. “You couldn't take your eyes off Zara all night.”
I leaned to the side and rested my head on his shoulder. “The man knows what he likes. I told him he could have the milk and eggs and bacon for free, but he insisted on buying the whole farm!”
Chet squeezed my hand. Hard. “Sweetie-Pie, I did not buy the farm. That's what you say when someone dies.”
I started to laugh, deliberately snorting to keep myself from cackling. “We can't have that,” I wheezed. “Not until I've taken out a big insurance policy on you.”
He squeezed my hand again. “One thing at a time,” he said tersely.
“Right,” I said, nodding. “Let's not waste Dorothy's time.”
Dorothy Tibbits crossed her legs primly. “What is it I can help you two lovebirds with?” Her posture was stiff, and her breathing was rapid and shallow. “Our receptionist said something about amalgamating your real estate holdings? Selling one house and moving in with each other?”
“Yes,” Chet said. “But we can't decide which house we should sell, and which one we should keep.”
Dorothy practically vibrated with excitement. “Well,” she said slowly. “You can let this be an emotional decision, or you can go by the numbers. There are many factors, such as lot size, age of renovations, plus let's not forget about the memories. All the wonderful memories of young Corvin, getting his height measured with those adorable little pen markings on the doorframe.” She batted her eyelashes. “You do mark his height on the doorframe, don't you?”
“Of course I do,” Chet said, his voice deep and low, bordering on a growl. “I'm a single parent, but I'm not an animal.”
Dorothy let loose frothy giggles. “Exactly! Which is why I crunched some numbers and I think you'll be better off selling the red house.” In spite of her Botox, she wrinkled her nose with what seemed like considerable effort. “It's getting so old now, and you're coming up on a huge repair bill for a new roof and probably repiping and heaven knows what condition the foundation is in.” She waved one manicured hand. “Why not let the new owner worry about those things?”
I beamed at her. For such a terrible real estate agent, she was surprisingly convincing today… for some reason. Could it be an ulterior motive?
“Dorothy, you and I are on the exact same page,” I said. “But my aunt could use some convincing. She's been spouting some mumbo jumbo about the house having magical properties. Have you ever heard such nonsense?” I tilted my head up, caught Aunt Zinnia's eye through the glass walls of the meeting room, and waved for her to come join us. “Here she is now,” I said to Dorothy. “You'll talk to her, won't you?”
Dorothy stammered, “Uh, y-y-es, I'll certainly, uh, try.”
Aunt Zinnia rushed in and took a seat, facing me and keeping the back of her shoulder facing the real estate agent.
“Zara, I've done it,” she said breathlessly, setting a mirrored jewelry box on the glass table. “It's all inside this box, but we have to release it within the next few minutes before everything expires. I've done the calculations, and we won't have another chance again for seven years.”
I clapped my free hand to my cheek and gasped, “Seven years? And we only have a few minutes? We'd better cast it at once.”
Chet released my hand, pushed his chair back so hard it toppled over, and stood, towering over me. “Cast what? Don't tell me you're a witch.”
I shrugged meekly.
“I married a witch?” Chet shook his head and clenched his fists. “Wisteria! It's this whole damned town! Full of witches!”
Dorothy had also gotten to her feet. She looked like she was fighting the urge to flee the room. Unfortunately for Dorothy, we were blocking the only exit.
Her voice shaking, Dorothy said, “Whatever voodoo witchcraft nonsense you're thinking about doing, you'd better not, or you'll be very sorry.”
Aunt Zinnia turned her head very slowly and gave her a bored look. “Or what, Dorothy? You'll tell the whole town I'm a witch? Honestly, it would be good to get it out there and stop having to hide what I am.” She leaned forward and flicked up the latch on the jewelry box. “Let's get this party started.”
Dorothy screamed and tried to throw herself on top of the mirrored jewelry box, but she was too slow. The box was open. A puff of purple smoke wafted out, along with a flash of light and a loud crackle.
I clung to Chet, wrapping myself around his strong shoulder. “It's her,” I cried. “Winona Vander Zalm. And she's coming right for me. She wants to control me. Oh, Chet, I don't know if I'm strong enough for—” I didn't finish. I was falling to the floor. Once down, I shook and spasmed for a full ten seconds before going limp.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dorothy Tibbits creeping around to the exit. I flicked my hand and the door slammed shut and locked. Dorothy let out a strangled cry.
Slowly, I gathered myself and got to my feet. With a calm face and an otherworldly tone to my voice, I began to speak.
“Darling! Don't leave yet,” I said to Dorothy. “My witch friends have opened a portal to allow me access to the mortal plane one last time. I have very important business to attend to. I wish to face the person who killed me, and demand an explanation.”
I looked right into Dorothy's eyes.
From beside me, Chet said, “Zara, stop this. Enough of your shenanigans. No wife of mine is going to run around casting spells and acting like—” He stopped speaking at the flick of my wrist. With another flick, he was flying back, both arms windmilling. He struck the wall of the boardroom and slid down, his head lolling to one side limply.
“Husbands,” I said with disgust. “That's why I refused to get married. I've had plenty of suitors over the past hundred and fifty years, but I knew the price to be paid was too high.”
“Winona?” Zinnia took my hand and stroked it. “How wonderful to see you again. What were you saying before that big beefcake interrupted you so rudely?”
I turned again to Dorothy, who was trying to hide under the table despite it being transparent. I leaned over the table, stared down into her eyes and said, “Why'd you do it?”
“What?” Dorothy scrambled backward, putting more space between us but staying under the table. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she mewled.
I banged my fist on the table. “Dorothy, stop your mewling!”
She switched from mewling to keening.
I leaned forward and growled, “I didn't cross over from the spirit plane to hear your nonsense. You'll answer my question and you'll answer it honestly, or else!”
A hint of emotion twitched across her face. “Or what? You can't hurt me. You can't hurt someone unless they're attacking you. I may not be a witch, but I know about the rules.” She straightened up and gave me a defiant look.
“But I'm not a witch,” I said coldly. “I'm the undead. I do whatever I want. Watch this.” I pointed at slumped-over Chet and yelled, “Shaazaba!”
His body jerked in apparent pain. Five seconds later, he went still again, with his head tilted up. Bright red blood ran from his mouth, dripping down his neck in gory rivers.
I turned to Dorothy and bent all the way down to the table, so my hot breath fogged the glass between us.
“Dorothy, you're not in Kansas anymore,” I said. “It's time for answers. Why did you murder me, Winona Vander Zalm? Answer now, or I'll turn your insides to blood pudding and your face into a handbag.”
She screwed up her face and finally burst out, “It wasn't fair how you had that house all to yourself for all those years! You should have shared it with other people. You were best friends with my mother for all those years and you could have stopped her from dying, but you didn't because you were selfish.”
“Are you saying I should have had roommates? Is that why you killed me?”
She cried, “It was time for someone else
to live in that house. You had your days and you did nothing but throw frivolous parties. You cared more about whatever fancy dress you were going to wear next than you did about other human beings.”
“Enough!” I whacked the table with my fist. “I didn't come here to be insulted by the likes of you, murderess. I have some questions that need to be answered. The electricity made me lose some of my precious memories. Answer one more question and I'll let you live.”
“Okay,” Dorothy said. “I'll tell you anything you want to know. Is it about the gadget?” Her face contorted into a hideous grin.
I made a fist. “Yes. Tell me about the gadget.”
“My brother made it in his shop, but it was all my design.” She let out a maniacal laugh. “You're too stupid to understand, but I'll put it in simple terms. When you brought in your toaster for cord-lengthening, we increased the voltage by adding a second power source, built right into the toaster. The technology available these days is truly remarkable. We added a tiny spy-grade camera, and we also added cheap parts from a dollar-store mousetrap. Using the camera, I was able to spy on you, and when the moment was right—when you were flaunting your immortality by making those wretched Pop Tarts right next to your tub, I pushed my little red button and sent the toaster sailing into the water.”
I hissed, “I remember. It sprang up on its own.”
“Not on its own,” Dorothy spat back. “I did it. Me.” She thumped her chest. “Stupid little Dorothy Tibbits who had to take the real estate exam three times. I did it. I killed the unkillable.”
Beside me, Chet said, “I think we can wrap things up now.”
Zinnia patted me on the shoulder. “Good job, Zara.”
I glared at her, eyes wide. “There is no Zara. There is only Zuul. Zuuuuuuuul.”
She kept patting my shoulder. “I see somebody's a big Ghostbusters fan. Good. A sense of humor is an excellent quality in a witch.”
Beneath the table, Dorothy was making sputtering sounds. “Zuul? What? What's going on?” She pointed at Chet. “You're dead. She killed you!”
Chet wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “These movie props taste terrible,” he said.
Dorothy gave him a bewildered look and whimpered, “Movie props?”
“Silly Dorothy,” I said. “How could I cast a spell on Chet when there's no such thing as witchcraft, or ghosts?” I turned to Zinnia and said, “Please tell me all the cameras in this room were recording.”
She gave me two thumbs up. “All systems are go,” she said. “The police should have an easy job once they get this footage, along with the modified toaster. Confessions are great, but juries love to see physical evidence.”
I gave her my own thumbs up. “It might be a smidge rusty from the salt, but I've got an evil toaster I'll be happy to re-home at the Wisteria Police Department Evidence Locker!”
Chapter 27
One Week Later
“Zara Riddle, if you're not a witch, how did you know the killer was Dorothy Tibbits? She wasn't even in town at the time of the murder.”
I gave the detective my most innocent look. His name was Bentley, like the luxury car company. Detective Bentley. And he was cute, in a foxy-older-man way. I'd been trying—unsuccessfully—to set him up with Zinnia.
“First of all, witches aren't real,” I said.
He nodded slowly, watching me carefully with keen eyes the same steely gray as the hair at his temples.
“Witches aren't real,” he agreed. “And neither are ghosts. But Dorothy Tibbits was a believer, which was why your theatrical performance worked on her.” He scratched his cheek. “What was that purple fog that came out of the mirrored jewelry box? I've been asking around at the local magic shops—all two of them—and nobody can identify that particular prop.”
“You should ask my aunt,” I said. “You could take her for a drink sometime. She's a lot more fun after a glass of wine, or seven.”
“Ah, sure,” he said flatly. “Never mind about the purple smoke then.” He glanced around the Wisteria Police Department's interview room, making a funny face at the ceiling-mounted camera. “Walk me through how you knew it was Dorothy.”
“At first, I thought she was just a terrible real estate agent. When I first came to look at the house, she had the Open House signs pointing the wrong way, the lights off, and boxes of debris blocking the doorway.”
Detective Bentley nodded. “Not everyone strives for excellence in their job.” He stopped talking, and I heard his silent addition of the way I do. Bentley was a striver, and he was, indeed, excellent. If we did cross paths again, I'd have to be careful to keep my powers hidden.
“I toured the house anyway, and I fell in love with the home, but the more eager I got, the stranger Dorothy acted. She insisted I have a look at her house, which was also for sale, before I made an offer. She all but begged me to buy any other house instead, but I downloaded a standard offer-to-purchase and registered it with her office. She had no choice but to present it to the estate executor, and Chet accepted. The next week, she took her own house off the market, but I didn't realize that until I started investigating.”
“You mean snooping,” Bentley said. “You're not a licensed investigator. You were snooping.” He gave the room's camera a victorious I-got-her look. “But how did you come to suspect her?”
“I'm glad you asked! It was my gut, actually. Did you know that people really do feel and think with their guts? The microbial balance in our digestive system affects many of our thoughts and behavior.”
“Your gut told you?”
“Yes,” I said, leaving out the part where a ghostly finger wrote the words KILLER DINNER on my foggy bathroom mirror. I also couldn't tell him how the ghost had angrily knocked Dorothy's housewarming gifts off the fireplace mantle.
So, I told him a half-truth. “Detective Bentley, my amazingly intuitive gut told me. It said her killer had been at my recent dinner party, so that narrowed down my list of suspects.”
“Fascinating,” Bentley said flatly.
“At first, I suspected my co-worker, Frank Wonder, because he'd been overly interested in the bathtub on the night of my dinner party. Plus he and Winona had history with a who-wore-it-best thing over a certain sequined pantsuit.”
Bentley blinked and waved his pen for me to continue.
“Then I suspected my aunt, who's a treasure of a woman once you get to know her. She co-wrote a cookbook with the deceased, years ago. When I spoke to her about it, though, she had only fond memories of their time co-creating recipes. Like I said, Zinnia is a real catch.”
He waved the pen again.
“But it was my boss, Katy Carmichael, who tipped me off. She told me about the rumors. Have you heard the one where my silly old house is a fountain of youth?” I laughed. “Can you believe such a thing?”
“I'm a man of science,” he said.
“Me, too. A woman of science who believes in the collected wisdom of carefully researched and annotated knowledge. I am a librarian.”
“Yes, we've covered that. Several times.”
I continued, “But Dorothy Tibbits is not a woman of science. She's superstitious, and she believed the house would prolong her life and delay aging. She killed the homeowner to get it on the market, but she couldn't raise the funds right away, because the market's been so flat lately. She planned to let the listing get stale and then put in a lowball offer once she'd gotten her money freed up from the sale of her own house.”
“That was her motivation,” he said.
“Indeed.” I rested my elbows on the cheap plastic surface of the folding table and tented my fingers, supervillain-style. “But what Dorothy didn't account for was the resourcefulness of a broke single mother looking to start fresh in a wonderful new town. I saw through the dust and clutter, spotting a diamond in the rough.” I nodded like a bobblehead. “A woman in search of her dream home is a powerful thing.”
“Almost like magic?”
“Almost.�
� I glanced up at the two-way glass behind the detective just in time to see my eyes twinkle.
“Hmm,” he said.
“And then I took a closer look at the toaster and came up with my crazy plan,” I said. “And you know the rest, since it's all on those videos we gave you.”
Detective Bentley nodded, clicked his pen, and closed the hardcover book he'd been using to take notes.
“We're done for now,” he said.
I gave him my warmest smile. “Come see me at the library if you ever need my help again.”
He made a disagreeable sound, as though he wanted to deny that a woman like me could ever be of help to him but thought better of speaking his mind.
After I left the police station, I walked to my aunt's house, where I found Zinnia and my daughter in the flower-festooned sitting room with the curtains drawn. Zinnia was playing teacher, showing Zoey how to hold her hands and whisper the spell to make a puff of purple smoke. It wasn't going well.
I took a seat on the tasseled sofa next to a frustrated Zoey, who whined, “There's no point! I'll never be able to do magic.”
“Patience,” Zinnia said. “You must have faith, and you must have patience.”
“Hang in there,” I said, wrapping my arm around her shoulders and squeezing her to my side.
Zinnia's purple smoke reached my nostrils and made my mouth water. It smelled exactly like caramel corn, except twice as delicious.
“Zara, how are you doing?” Zinnia asked.
“Great, except I miss my ghost pal. Winona's completely gone now, which is bad news for my culinary future.”
Zoey interjected, “We had peanut butter sandwiches for dinner last night, and she forgot the peanut butter.”
“But we did have a scary red hand floating in the punch bowl.”
“Mom, pouring a bottle of wine into a bowl doesn't make it punch.”
I snorted. “Smarty-pants teenagers and their fixation on details like ingredients.”
Zinnia said solemnly, “Because of your gift with wandering spirits, you may attract another one soon.”