"Some gift," I snorted. "I wish Winona's ghost would just tell me what she wants."
"Ghosts aren't people," Zinnia explained. "They're more like recordings, like messages that play on repeat."
"I've heard that before," Zoey said. "I read it on the internet. I thought you said the internet got scrubbed clean of real magic stuff?"
"Mostly," Zinnia said. "Some information is just so old that it's gotten embedded in the collective unconscious."
My stomach growled. The cookies were all gone. "Aunt Zinnia, do you mind if we order some pizza, or move this conversation to somewhere with pizza?"
"I've got plenty of food in my kitchen," she said, leaning forward to stand.
"Stay where you are," I said. "I'll whip something up. Other than your mystical mayonnaise, is there anything else in your refrigerator I should steer clear of?"
"Don't touch the jar of white things that look like eyeballs," she said.
"Is it something gross?"
"It's eyeballs," she said.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I was serving appetizers to my daughter and my aunt.
"This is incredible," Zinnia said.
My daughter said to her, "It's a new skill she's acquired since moving to Wisteria, and it's the strangest thing. Back home, we joked about her burning ice cubes." She held one hand alongside her mouth and stage-whispered, "Which is a thing she actually did once."
"I heard that," I said as I set the tray of food on the sitting room's coffee table.
"These new culinary skills are part of being Spirit Charmed," Zinnia explained. "You take on the special life skills of any ghost who gets attached to you."
"Attached?" I looked my shoulder. "I've got a ghost stuck to me?"
She took a deep, serious breath. "I'm afraid you do. Winona Vander Zalm must have attached herself to you the moment your powers kicked in. That's how you were able to whip up those fancy appetizers. It's something she would have done."
Zoey asked, "How long will this last?"
Zinnia tilted her head from side to side. "Hard to say. Eventually, she'll go away." Zinnia waved her hands like bird wings.
I hugged my arms around my chest. "Where will she go?"
"Where we all go, once we've found peace." Zinnia picked up a tiny sandwich delicately. "Once she's completed her unfinished business."
"What if her mission is to be alive again, living inside her Red Witch House and throwing elaborate dinner parties?"
Zinnia chewed slowly and then swallowed. "Is that what you think she wants?"
I scratched my ear, which had a tickling feeling inside the ear canal. Dinner party, something whispered. Was that Winona, whispering her wishes to me? Dinner party! The voice sounded enthused. Making appetizers at my aunt's house had gotten Winona Vander Zalm in a mood for entertaining.
Zoey gave me a big-eyed look. If I had to guess what she was thinking, it would be that we should tell our aunt about the investigation Chet was conducting.
I gave her a tiny head shake. No. We couldn't trust Zinnia any further than we could throw her. What if she was the one behind the bird attack in the forest? Or what if I blew Chet's secret-agent cover and ruined his whole life?
Zinnia leaned forward and looked into my eyes. "Are you having a vision right now?"
"Maybe," I said. "What are your plans for Friday?"
"That depends," she answered tentatively. "Will you be throwing any small appliances into water that night?"
I patted my left shoulder, where I imagined a ghostly hand resting. "That's the old, misunderstood Winona Vander Zalm. No more toaster hijinx. She and I are taking our relationship to the next level."
"She's communicating with you?"
I nodded. "She was whispering in my ear just now. She wants to throw another dinner party. A big one."
"The housewarming party," Zoey said. "We can invite everyone we know."
Yes, the voice whispered. Let's have a party.
My aunt bobbed her head and pulled her phone from a pocket in her skort. She frowned at the screen a moment, then looked directly at the dried shifter blood on my skirt. She frowned at the phone again, then looked up at me.
"That blood belongs to Chet Moore," she said.
I tried to think of something to say, but I couldn't hear myself think over the ghost in my head, buzzing happily about a dinner menu.
"And you knew," Zinnia said, her eyes narrowing. "You lied to me."
"I guess that makes us even."
"Witches don't keep score with each other," she sniped. "What else haven't you told me?"
I looked over at Zoey, who gave me a shrug.
"Chet's investigating Ms. Vander Zalm's death," I said, and I went on to tell her what little information I'd dragged out of him.
When I was done, she said, "That matches up with my information."
"Who's your contact?"
"You'll find out soon enough," she said.
"Is it your guy?"
She nearly choked on the sandwich she'd been eating. "My guy?"
"The one who checked my house for bugs."
"If you must know, yes. But that's all I can tell you for now. I promise, soon I'll share everything with you. Soon."
"You'd better. Because after you come to our rockin' house party on Friday, Zoey and I will be your new favorite people."
"You already are," she said, so softly I wasn't sure if she'd actually said it or I was reading her mind.
Chapter 27
I managed to get through the week without being electrocuted or attacked by pterodactyl-sized birds.
By the time Friday came around, I was skipping around with excitement about the dinner party.
The only thing that wasn't falling into place was a guest for the tenth place setting. I told Zoey to invite a new friend from school, but she insisted she had "too many" new friends and couldn't possibly narrow it down to one. I suspected the number of new friends she'd made over the past two weeks was closer to zero, but I kept it to myself. She was already self-conscious about fitting in and being normal. I knew, based on my previous sixteen years of living with the girl, that pushing her for details or nosing my way in would help neither of us.
So, before the guests arrived, I reconfigured the table to seat nine, magically moving all the chairs and place settings without lifting a finger. I could lift items over five pounds with good control
Zoey sniffed and said, "Show-off." She leaned over the table and carefully straightened the silverware. "Your accuracy could use some work," she commented. "Have you been practicing writing on a chalkboard like Auntie Z suggested?"
"Boring," I answered.
She muttered under her breath, "Magic is totally wasted on some witches."
She stretched to reach across the table, revealing a gap between her jeans and shirt where the top of her underwear was visible. I twitched one finger and gave her a hands-free wedgie. As repayment for her sass. And also just because.
She howled, "You're the worst mother in the world!"
"Second worst," I corrected. "Remember, your grandmother kicked me out of the house because I chose to give birth to you. She gets the crown title."
Zoey put her hands on her hips and glowered at me furiously. She was justifiably upset with me for the wedgie, but when I'd mentioned the sacrifices I'd made to give her life, I'd taken the wind out of her sails. I wasn't proud of my devious motherly manipulations, but I sure was good at it.
The doorbell rang.
"Ding-dong," I said. "That'll be the doorbell."
She continued glaring at me with teen angst. "You're the ding-dong."
"According to Aunt Zinnia, we're both ding-dongs."
The doorbell rang again.
"Doorbell," I said.
She gave me one big huff before turning and going to answer the door. Sometimes it was more trouble than it was worth to get her to answer the door. When she was younger, I'd read a book about parenting, and a couple of tips had stuc
k with me. One of them was about empowering your offspring to carve out a place in the world by giving them ownership of a specific task. It was also a great way to trick her into doing chores.
On second thought, I probably should have aspired to something grander than doorbell duty.
* * *
Our housewarming party had begun.
The Moores arrived first, and soon the conversation flowed. We would have such a wonderful mix of guys and gals, young and old. You'd have thought an expert entertainer or two had orchestrated everything.
Handsome Chet did not show up in his furry shifter form, but he did wear a dark gray suit and a yellow tie featuring foxes hiding amongst trees in the woods. I couldn't take my eyes off the tie, which seemed to be a cheeky reference to our adventure in the forest.
We hadn't interacted much since the attack. He still seemed sore about my suspicions, and I was annoyed that he wouldn't tell me more about his employer. We'd left the supernatural stuff unspoken and only chatted a few times over the fence about the weather and this party.
He caught me staring and said, "You like my foxy tie."
"I like your foxy everything." I smiled at him, feeling unsteady when he locked those handsome green eyes on mine. He'd saved my life, and then I'd saved his. Something like that changes a relationship.
"I'm not half as foxy as you," he said.
I felt my cheeks flush at his flirtation. This playful interaction felt wonderful. Apparently, he had forgiven me for my paranoia earlier in the week. It must have upset him when I suggested his son was behind the attack, but he'd had time to realize I wasn't crazy. Maybe it was the soft lighting or the party ambiance, but I felt our friendship was evolving, deepening with trust.
The eldest of the Moore family, Don, began negotiating for forbidden foods. "Is that ham? I can smell honey-glazed ham. Two slices?" He held up two fingers and looked pleadingly at Chet.
"The slices are quite thin," I said.
Chet smiled again, catching me in the tractor beam of his glittering green eyes. "If Zara wants to give you two thin slices, then it's fine with me." He winked at me.
I winked right back before turning to make sure young Corvin also felt welcome.
"So glad you could make it all the way over here," I said to the boy.
Corvin looked me right in the eyes and said, "We live next door, dummy."
I gave him the plastic smile that I used to let Zoey know she was treading on thin ice. "Aren't you adorable," I said. "How old are you? Five?"
Corvin narrowed his huge, dark eyes at me, glowering under his long, blue-black bangs. "I'm ten! You're a dummy!"
Don nudged his grandson. "Don't call people names."
"Drinks!" Zoey announced. "Who wants a fancy drink that may or may not come from a juicebox?"
While Corvin and Don were distracted by Zoey taking bartender orders, I sidled up to Chet and whispered, "How's the investigation going?"
"Not bad," he said. "How are things at the library?"
"I've been researching secret organizations. Blink twice if you're a member of the Illuminati."
He didn't blink.
"Freemasons." No blink. "Skull and Bones? The Rosicrucians? Knights Templar? Golden Cross? Druids? Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn?"
He kept staring into my eyes, unwavering. "You're quite the librarian."
I continued, "Bilderberg Group? The Ancient Arabic Order of the Nobles of the Mystic Shrine?"
His eyes wrinkled at the corners but he didn't blink. "I'm not a Shriner, but they do excellent work for charities. I have made a few donations."
"I'll keep looking," I said. "Librarians don't give up easily."
He looked down at the foxes on his yellow tie and chuckled.
"Can you tell me anything about the case?" I asked. "She is my ghost, after all."
He glanced around to make sure nobody was paying attention to us. "Since you asked so nicely, I've been looking into Winona Vander Zalm's former lovers, as well as any other society ladies she tangled with over the years. She was a well-liked woman, but she lived a long life. Long enough to cross a few people."
"Your family must have loved her, for helping your mother give birth to you." I glanced down at the floor beneath our feet. "Was it right about here?"
He stepped in closer to me. I could feel, through my elegant black party dress, the warmth radiating from Chet's body.
With a low, gruff tone, he said, "You tell me. Are you feeling anything special about this part of the room?"
I batted my eyelashes, temporarily speechless. I did feel something special, but it was all coming from Chet, not some patch of hardwood. We continued to stare at each other. Was his face moving closer to mine? Was I imagining things, or was he about to kiss me?
The doorbell rang.
"Doorbell," I said.
He grinned. "Doorbell."
I pointed over my shoulder and stepped back. "That's not my job, but I'm going to answer the door anyway."
"Sure," he said, glancing around. "I'll check on Corvin and make sure he's being nice to Zoey."
I excused myself and ran to the door.
It was my boss, Kathy, and my coworker, Frank.
While I greeted them and took their jackets, I heard Chet bark, "Corvin! You've got to be more careful!"
"It's just juice," I heard Zoey say. "I'll take him to the washroom and get him cleaned up."
Corvin whined, "Stop touching me! I don't want a big sister."
Meanwhile, at the doorway, Frank caught my eye and raised his pink eyebrows. "Family drama?"
"Neighbor drama," I said, and I explained how my offspring and Chet's offspring had sort of a like-hate thing.
Kathy shook her head. "Boys are harder than girls," she said. "That's the Moore boy? He's an odd one, with those giant, dark eyes."
"Like a spooky cartoon come to life," Frank agreed.
We all listened as my daughter patiently responded to Corvin, "If I'm not your big sister, how about a friend? A friend who's older than you can be very useful, especially when you want certain things that you can't get yourself."
"Like what?" he asked. I could hear him being charmed. Witch powers or not, my daughter had a knack for logical persuasion. I crossed my fingers and hoped they could get along. Then I quickly uncrossed my fingers and cleared my mind before I accidentally cast a spell I knew nothing about.
Zoey lowered her voice, so we couldn't hear the rest of their conversation.
I clapped my hands and refocused on my librarian friends. "Drinks?"
Frank said, "I simply must get a full tour of the house before dinner, or I won't be able to sit still." He wrinkled his nose apologetically. "I'd be trying to see through your walls and visualize the floor plan."
"No problem," I said. "Welcome to my house. Please elbow me if I'm saying my house too much. It's my new favorite phrase." I finished hanging up their jackets, and then led them up the stairs to the second floor. Both made ooh-aah sounds as they admired the bedrooms and the spacious linen closet.
When we got to the master bathroom, Kathy ran her hands over the rolled edge of the cast iron tub. She hooted, "Whooooo doesn't love a claw-foot tub? Who?"
"My daughter," I said with a laugh. "That's who. She says the tub has weird chicken feet."
Frank turned away from us to admire his flamingo-pink hair in the bathroom's mirror. "My sister has weird chicken feet," he said. "And I don't mean on her antique bathtub. But at least her feet go with her weird chicken legs just fine."
Kathy pushed her round glasses up her small, sharp, owl-like nose. "Zara, I adore what you've done with the place. I'm glad you kept some of Winona's window coverings. She certainly loved her colors, but it all goes beautifully with your furnishings."
I turned to her, surprised. "You've been here before?"
"A time or two," she said.
"You knew Winona?"
"Who didn't know Winona? She had her spectacular hands in everything, including countless
fundraisers for the library." She beckoned for us to lean in, and whispered, "I was right here, in this house, only a month before she died."
Frank made a strangled noise and side-stepped toward the bathroom door. He caught my eye and asked, "Is it true she died in that tub?" His eyes bulged as he glanced at the claw-foot antique.
Something took hold of me. Winona herself. Without warning, she slipped over me like a silk shawl. I tipped my head back and let out a bold laugh.
The two of them stared at me in silence. Kathy's owl eyes grew rounder. Frank's shock of pink hair looked more shocked than usual.
I simply smiled, my face smooth and relaxed. Winona's voice came from my voicebox. "Darlings, let us not speak of sad and dreary things on this beautiful evening," I said. "Back downstairs with us, to make merry and quicken the night!"
They followed my lead without argument.
We arrived back on the main floor to find the real estate agent, Dorothy Tibbits, peering in the front door.
Dorothy called out, "Hello? Is this Zara Riddle's intimate little dinner party or have I wandered into some groovy, exclusive night club?"
I waved Dorothy in and introduced her to the librarians. Dorothy had brought a wicker basket in place of a purse, and she had a sheaf of business cards and real estate brochures sitting on top.
Frank looked her up and down, "Oh, Ms. Tibbits and I know each other," he said coolly.
"So nice to see you again," Kathy said, shaking the Realtor's hand. "How do you know Zara?"
Dorothy turned her head from side to side, shaking her long, brown pigtails. Thanks to her Botox, her face was expressionless. She seemed lost for words, so I jumped in.
"Dorothy sold me the house," I explained. "She's a terrible real estate agent! Just terrible!" I tipped my head back and laughed the way I had upstairs.
Kathy, Frank, and Dorothy stared at me with shocked, delighted, and blank expressions respectively.
What had possessed me to insult my Realtor? Simple. A ghost. My three guests waited for an explanation, but I couldn't exactly tell them a ghost was partying in my voicebox. Nor could I deny what I'd said. Dorothy Tibbits was a terrible real estate agent. A dented can of Spam could have done a better job selling the Red Witch House.
3-Book Series Bundle: Wisteria Witches, Wicked Wisteria, Wisteria Wonders - Cozy Witch Mysteries Page 16