Wicked Wisteria (Witch Cozy Mystery and Paranormal Romance) (Wisteria Witches Book 2)

by Angela Pepper

  “But I'm the idiot who flashed her magic around in front of a complete stranger.” I swallowed with difficulty. My mouth felt cottony, and she was right about the lightheadedness. Whatever had been in the chocolate egg was dulling my senses along with shorting out my magical circuits.

  “That you did,” she said. “And you understand why it was wrong?”

  “My impulsive behavior could have put us all in danger.”

  She was still holding my face in her hands. We both stood the exact same height in our matching boots, perfect for locking eyes.

  “You'll thank me later,” she said again.

  I forced my mouth into the approximation of a smile. “We'll see.”

  She finally released my face from her hands. The world spun. Without her holding onto me, I felt light enough to float away, to drift elsewhere.

  “It won't be long,” she said. “Just a few days, maybe less.”

  “What do you mean, maybe less? Time off for good behavior?”

  “Not exactly.”

  The lightheadedness got worse. “You don't know how long it will last,” I said. “You put a spell on me without knowing the exact effects.”

  She rubbed her hands together. They sounded dry, in need of hand lotion. “We really should get going,” she said.

  “Going? Where?” I'd forgotten all about our plans to visit the Pressman residence. Our mission came flooding back to me, and the whole thing seemed so ridiculous and pointless. I didn't want to go knock on someone's door and fish for information. I wanted to go home and pull the covers over my pounding head.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Let's not dilly dally and waste the light.”

  I went to the door, using my hand to turn the knob in the non-magical way, and paused. “Shouldn't you put your disguise back on?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “I can still turn the projection on again tonight, but my energy won't last forever. The closer we get to my usual bedtime, the more difficult it is for me to focus.”

  “Right,” I said. I knew that. I'd noticed it myself—that my concentration typically waned around nine o'clock. If I was using my telekinetic powers throughout the day, after nine o'clock was when I'd drop teacups and other objects. But a few hours later, if I stayed up past my bedtime, I'd start to get a second wind around midnight.

  My magic felt different in the dead of night.

  More powerful, but darker.

  Like my aunt when she was teaching me a lesson.

  We got into Zinnia's car with her at the wheel.

  The Pressman house wasn't far from the library. Driving in the car, we would be there in under ten minutes.

  That meant I had about nine minutes to push aside my emotions and stop stewing over being tricked into taking a test that I failed.

  People say redheads are quick to temper. While I can't speak for all of my kind, it's certainly true of the Riddle women. And while there's no shortage of smirking talk about this hot Riddle temper, there's darn little said about the art of letting go.

  * * *

  The Pressman house was so plain and box-like, it was barely a house. This was the sort of Bland Builder's Special I'd almost forgot existed. Wisteria residents preferred their houses quaint and colorful, with breezy wrap-around porches and lush front gardens. This house didn't even have a single blade of grass. The lawn was entirely gravel, one big driveway.

  Zinnia parked on the street, turned off the car engine, and sat quietly as we both sized up the place.

  “Not much of a castle to come home to,” she said.

  “The average American household spends over a thousand dollars annually on landscaping, which returns not one single cent of profit or agricultural production.”

  She turned to look at me. Coldly, she asked, “Who are you?”

  I froze in place under her icy stare. I'd been reaching to unfasten my seatbelt, but my aunt looked poised and ready to jolt me with a blast of something.

  “Easy now,” I said. “I'm still your niece. I'm Zara, I swear.”

  “Why the lecture?”

  “That was just a random factoid that bubbled up in my head. I think it was residual, though. I'm not fully possessed.”

  “Not at the moment,” she said, still watching me warily. “Tell me more about these factoids.”

  “It's a shame that FAQ list you gave me wasn't more informative. Don't get me wrong. I appreciate the trouble you went to, and it was good to see some information, but your cousin Beatrizz didn't say anything about factoids.”

  “Beatrizz never was that reliable,” she said. “You can take it up with her when she comes to visit.”

  I resisted the urge to clap my hands girlishly. I was excited about meeting other witches and family members, even if they were unreliable. But I was still sore at my aunt for poisoning me with that magic-busting chocolate.

  Zinnia was staring at me intently. “Do you get these factoids frequently?”

  “Not constantly, but sometimes as often as a few times in one day.”

  “What do they feel like?”

  “You know how sometimes you'll be doing something else while there's a quiz show on TV, and the host will ask a question, and you get the answer in your head? It pops up there, almost like credits on a movie screen, and you don't know how you know something, but you do?”

  “Yes. That happens to everyone on occasion.”

  I released my seatbelt and stretched away some body tension. My head still hurt, but I was recovering. “My spirit-given factoids work exactly like that. I'll probably get new ones with every new spirit.”

  “You think the knowledge will stick?”

  I shrugged. “I've still got song lyrics up there from twenty years ago, so why not?”

  She didn't say anything.

  I grinned. “I figure I'm about a hundred ghost possessions away from becoming the World Champion on Jeopardy.”

  She frowned. “We must never draw the public's attention to ourselves.”

  “It was a joke, Aunt Zinnia.”

  I turned to the window and looked at the plain house again.

  When I turned back to Zinnia, she was an old man with mangy-looking white hair and a black eye patch over one eye.

  I made the appropriately shocked GEEEEAAARRRCCCCHHHH noise. “Some warning might be nice,” I said.

  In the croaky old man voice, she said, “Wait in the car.”

  “Can't you throw some of that magic disguise spell over me as well?”

  “I can turn you into a tree, or a shrub.”

  “Great.” I reached for the door handle and paused. “Wait. Do you mean you'd turn me into a shrub, or that you'd disguise me as one?”

  The old man's one good eye blinked at me. “What do you think?”

  “Uh... shrub disguise sounds great.” I clicked open the car door. “I'll just go over by the fence line, on the neighbor's leafy green yard, since our penny-pinching Pressmans prefer gravel over growing things.”

  Zinnia got out of the car. Over the roof, she said to me, “Move slowly. Move like a shrub.”

  “Why?” I looked down and answered my own question. My legs were gone, replaced with a mass of shrubbery. I lifted one leg, bending at the knee, and wiggled my boot tentatively. What I saw was a branch quivering as though blown in the wind.

  “I said move like a shrub,” Zinnia said.

  “I'm trying!”

  “That looks like the Hokey Pokey.”

  “Can you guess what this is?” I lifted both hands in a rude gesture while sticking out my tongue. Though childish, it felt surprisingly good.

  “Whatever it is you're doing, go do it over there.” She pointed to a gap in the neighbor's hedge.

  I did as I was told, trying to move like a shrub, which is harder than you'd think.

  My aunt walked up to the front door of the Pressman residence. She lifted her fist to knock on the door but paused.

  I whispered, “What are you waiting for?”

  She didn't move. W
as she afraid? Or was there a glitch in the magical illusion?

  Something moving above her caught my eye. I leaned back and looked up at the home's top window. There was an attic floor, with a window. Standing in the window, looking down at the front step, was the same man I'd seen in the personal finance section of the library. Only this time he wasn't transparent. My ghost was alive. How could that be?

  Chapter 15

  The man in the attic window had unevenly cut gray hair and old-fashioned square glasses. His rectangular face looked even skinnier than it had appeared in his newspaper photo—gaunt, even—and his hooded eyes resembled dark holes. The darkness made me uneasy, bringing to mind the disturbing vision I'd had that morning at the hairdresser's.

  I shivered, my leaves rustling around me. Now, as the sun was setting and the day was turning to night, the morning's errands and pleasant walk outside felt like memories from another lifetime.

  The man looked my way, seemingly right at me despite my bush disguise. He looked sickly, but very much solid and alive. I held my breath, forcing myself to trust the bush disguise and not give myself away by running. After several agonizingly long seconds, he stepped back, disappearing from sight.

  As soon as he was gone, I began doubting my own eyes. The figure in the upper window had looked like Mr. Finance Wizard all right, but Perry Pressman couldn't have been there in flesh and blood. It couldn't be him. When I'd seen the man at the library on Monday, he'd turned into a wisp of smoke and traveled up my nostril into my head. Flesh and blood people didn't do that. Or did they? There was so much I had to learn about magic.

  I looked over at my aunt and waved to get her attention.

  She hadn't knocked on the door yet. She had opened the household's mailbox and was sorting through the envelopes, in no hurry at all.

  Our plan was for her to pass herself off as an old college friend of Perry Pressman's. She would inquire about his whereabouts to see what Josephine knew. She would improvise something, perhaps fainting, as a means of getting invited inside the home. Once in there, she would snoop around and continue asking questions. We hoped she would get some tip that explained the family's apparent involvement with books and tattoos erasing themselves. If all went according to plan, she would ascertain what business of Perry's might remain unfinished.

  That was Plan A, anyway.

  We also had a Plan B. If Perry's ghost suddenly took possession of me, we would switch to Plan B. He might take control and make me barge my way into the house. If that happened, Zinnia would quickly change her tune, claiming me as her unstable niece who'd recently suffered a concussion. She'd hide the truth in plain sight, skipping over the part about us being witches and jumping straight to the part about me getting visited by spirits in need of closure.

  We didn't have a Plan C, unless you counted running to the car and driving away quickly as a plan.

  What we hadn't discussed was my aunt going through the Pressmans' mail.

  I had to tell her Perry Pressman was upstairs, so I whisper-yelled, “Psst, come here.”

  The patchy-haired old man who was my aunt waved a hand at me and continued sorting through the contents of the home's mailbox. After a moment, Man-Zinnia turned to where I was hiding and mouthed something.

  I couldn't make out what she was saying. I whisper-yelled back, “I just saw someone in the attic. It looked like Perry Pressman, only he wasn't a ghost.”

  Man-Zinnia returned the mail to the mailbox and walked over to where I was standing. The gravel that covered the front yard crunched under her feet, but not synchronous with her visible foot movements. The mirage's audio track was slightly out of whack.

  But the voice was working properly. “No condolence cards in the mail,” she said, spitting her words in the elderly male voice. “Are you sure Perry Pressman is dead?”

  “Not anymore. That's what I was trying to tell you. I just saw him upstairs, in the attic window. He looked solid.”

  Man-Zinnia looked up. “But there's a reflection on the glass, and it's dusk now.”

  “I know what I saw. I'm eighty percent sure he was solid.”

  “Zara, things are never clear during the transition between day and night. Shadows walk from tree to tree, and hawks take flight to nowhere. It is the time when webbed things manifest, when bats unfurl from gathering mist and cloak the world in quiet darkness.”

  “And dusk is the time when you start waxing poetic, apparently. Could you be any weirder?”

  The one good eye blinked back at me. “Says the talking bush.”

  Something clawed at my hair. “Speaking of bush concerns, birds are landing on me,” I said. “Or possibly bats. I'm too scared to look. Can we move this along? If Perry Pressman is still alive, I need to start looking for my actual ghost.”

  Man-Zinnia adjusted her eye patch. “Did you read through all the recent obituaries for alternatives?”

  I grimaced so hard my bushy leaves rustled. I'd been busy at work with my regular day job. I'd been worried and excited, and possibly overconfident because identifying the Pressmans had happened so easily. But most importantly, I hadn't thoroughly read the obituaries because I hadn't thought of it.

  Man-Zinnia took my silence as admission of my guilt.

  “For shame,” she scolded. “You're Spirit Charmed, Zara. I should think checking the obituaries would be your top priority. You ought to be reading them first thing in the morning, along with your usual gallon of coffee.”

  “That certainly would be one way to start my day. Caffeine and reading about death.”

  Man-Zinnia let out a mannish harrumph sound. “Death is simply part of life.” She turned away. “Well, since we're already here, I'll knock on the door and see what we shall see.”

  I watched as Man-Zinnia knocked on the door and then waited, both gnarled hands resting on the cane. I wondered, was the cane a physical prop, conjured from nothingness into solid matter? Or was it an illusion, along with the appearance that Man-Zinnia was leaning some body weight upon it? I hadn't heard the tip of the cane strike the gravel when she walked across it. If the cane wasn't real, then technically I hadn't broken the rules by magically moving it. Magic telekinesis on a magic mirage canceled itself out. That would make Zinnia's grounding of my powers unfair and possibly illegal. I would consider taking the matter up with her superiors. If only I knew who they were. Maybe this cousin, Beatrizz Riddle, could be an ally.

  Over at the next house, the front door opened. A man appeared, lit from behind, his face in shadow. The short, round-shouldered posture matched that of Perry Pressman.

  I couldn't hear what he was saying to Man-Zinnia, but the tone of his voice sounded pleasant enough. They were just two older guys, having a neighborly chat.

  After a moment, the two walked off the porch and across the home's front yard. The pea gravel crunched under their feet. The man, who I presumed to be Perry Pressman, wore an old-fashioned men's fedora. Weirdly, he wore the fedora perched on the back of his head, the way a fashionable young woman might wear it. In fact, the two times I'd seen his daughter, she'd been wearing a hat the same way.

  As they neared me, I was better able to hear their conversation.

  Man-Zinnia asked gruffly, “What about maintenance? I can't bend over like I used to. Blood pressure drops and I'm liable to fall and smash up my nose.”

  “Maintenance isn't so bad,” Perry said. “You can top up the gravel every few years if you like, but all it really needs is a bit of elbow grease and a ten-dollar rake from the hardware store. You'll save yourself a few thousand by going with gravel instead of asphalt and turf. Plus it has a pleasing, rustic look.” Perry knelt down and gave his gravel driveway a loving pat.

  Man-Zinnia cleared her throat. “Thanks for the good advice, neighbor. Do you have any young people living with you to help with the raking? I live alone, so maybe I could hire one from time to time.”

  Perry Pressman got up from his knees, stumbled, and fell against Man-Zinnia. She caught the slight
man and quickly righted him again.

  “Wow,” Perry said, clutching his hat with both hands. “Sorry about that. It seems I've got some of that lightheadedness you mentioned.”

  “You should probably go see a doctor about that. Are you experiencing any other symptoms?”

  The man didn't answer. He dropped one arm limply to the side but kept one hand fixed to his hat, still mounted weirdly on the back of his head.

  Man-Zinnia chuckled self-consciously, sounding more female now. She explained in the low, crackling voice, “I'm, uh, retired now, but I used to work in the medical field.”

  “There's nothing wrong with me,” Perry said stiffly. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm very busy with my work.”

  “And what kind of work is that?” Man-Zinnia shook one gnarled finger at Perry. “Say, aren't you the fellow who used to run that coupon newspaper? The one with the classifieds?”

  “The Penny Pincher has been shut down for three years now,” Perry said, backing away stiffly.

  “The Penny Pincher! Now, that was a great little paper,” Man-Zinnia said. Her voice crackled as though glitching, and her speech sounded more feminine than when she'd started. “Now, what was that catchy tagline? The Penny Pincher Gazette. The most valuable thing printed today, besides money.” Man-Zinnia lifted the cane and shook it. “Such a shame the paper's gone now.”

  Perry continued backing away. “The people in this town didn't appreciate good advice when they had it. All they read is garbage that isn't worth the paper it's printed on.”

  “There's no accounting for taste.”

  Perry let out a rueful chuckle. “Thanks for being a fan, anyway. I guess I'll see you around, neighbor.”

  Behind him, another figure appeared in the doorway. It was the dark-haired hipster girl, his daughter Josephine.

  They were both there, in the same place at the same time. There went my theory about her impersonating him.

  Josephine called out, “Dad? I thought you were upstairs napping. Are you feeling better?”

  He snapped, “Get back in the house.”

  “But Dad,” she whined. “Some old friends want me to go out with them tonight.”