3-Book Series Bundle: Wisteria Witches, Wicked Wisteria, Wisteria Wonders - Cozy Witch Mysteries

by Angela Pepper

  I flicked my bracelet again. I'd learned of her reported suicide from my neighbor, not from direct contact. But between the underwater swimming and this morning's bracelet sign, I'd apparently made some sort of connection. Enough to justify fudging the truth. “Sure. You could say that.”

  There was the sound of fingers typing on a keyboard. “We're bringing you in tonight. I've cleared you for access to the ward, so you can see her. You can sit with her. And I'll be there the whole time.”

  “Can Frank come along?”

  “Who?” Chet sounded genuinely confused. “The flamingo? No way. If he knows what's good for him, he'll stay clear of DWM business. Tell him to stick to the library, and his human form, where he doesn't put our entire operation at risk like a wild pink bird on the loose.”

  Flatly, I said, “I'll be sure and let Mr. Wonder know that you send your warmest regards.”

  “Keep your schedule clear tonight,” Chet said. “I'll be in touch as soon as I can.” He made a grunt that sounded like good-bye, and ended the call.

  I put the phone in my purse and turned to watch Frank for a reaction.

  We were already at the library, pulling the car into the staff parking lot.

  “Your beau has a mean side,” Frank said.

  “I'm sorry he was so rude about you,” I said.

  Frank shrugged it off, but I'd seen the hurt on his face. “In my fifty-five years on the planet, I've heard far worse.”

  “He would never have said that if he knew you were listening.”

  “Well, you can't blame him for being sore about a big pink bird flying around the city.” He tilted his head to the side. “Do you suppose that's why Wisteria has such a well-stocked zoo despite being a relatively small town? Could the zoo be a handy cover story for various shifter operations? I can think of at least two times in the past year alone that there was a story on the news about escaped zoo animals wreaking havoc.”

  “Well done, Sherlock Holmes. I do believe you've uncovered one of Wisteria's many mysteries.”

  Frank beamed with pride as we got out of the car and walked toward the library in the morning sunshine.

  I didn't dare burst Frank's bubble by suggesting that the zoo might be more than just a cover story. The tourist attraction could very well be stocked with certain supernatural residents of Wisteria, trapped in their animal states. Locked up in cages, forced to live as zoo animals.

  No, Frank didn't need to hear about that.

  Chapter 13

  The first part of Tuesday morning went by quietly. At half past ten, Kathy, the head librarian, went for her coffee break, leaving me alone at the front desk.

  The minute I was on my own, in walked a serious-looking man in a dark suit. He was average height, around forty, with dark hair turning steely gray at the temples. He didn't come wandering in, nor did he stroll. He marched with a purposeful stride, straight toward me.

  “Zara Riddle,” he said coolly. “Right where I expected you to be. How reassuring.”

  I fluttered my eyelashes. “Detective Bentley! What a surprise to see you here, in the big building where we keep all the books. Would you like a tour?” More eyelash fluttering. “Or do you have to get back to... detecting things, or handing out parking tickets, or whatever it is you do when you're not checking up on your fellow municipal employees?”

  “If that's how you treat a man bringing you a gift, I'd hate to imagine the abuse I'd receive if I showed up unprepared.”

  He placed a white bakery box on the counter between us. A sweet vanilla aroma rose from the box, and a pleasant cologne scent came from the detective. He was much cuter than I'd given him credit for. Had his jaw always been so chiseled and strong? Maybe it was just his proximity to fresh baked goods.

  “Detective Bentley, I'm sure you've never been unprepared a day in your life.”

  He almost smiled.

  We both looked down at the white box.

  I pulled a letter opener from a drawer, and ripped through the Gingerbread House sticker affixing the lid. Inside were eleven rainbow sprinkle donuts and one chocolate éclair.

  “How thoughtful,” I said. “It's a shame someone got to the bakery before you and snapped up the twelfth rainbow sprinkle donut.” I closed the box and gave him a smile of my own, warm enough to melt the éclair. “Is this a bribe? What can I do for you in return? Have any pernicious perps you'd like me to shake down with my cheap, fake-magic tricks?”

  “Pernicious perps,” he said, evidently amused by my turn of phrase. “Perhaps you can be of help to me another time.”

  “Thanks for the donuts, anyway.”

  “I must be honest, Ms. Riddle. This is a gift from Chloe Taub. She assured me you'd understand the gesture. You do know whom I'm referring to, don't you? Chloe and her husband are the owners of the Gingerbread House.”

  “I know who she is.” But did he know who she was, I wondered. Or what she was? “Thank you for the delivery.” I reached into my pocket, grabbed a loose bill and handed it over. “Keep the change.”

  His mouth tightened, yet he took the money and slipped it into his tailored gray suit jacket without breaking eye contact. The bill had been a twenty. Totally worth it.

  Detective Bentley started to turn away, then stopped. With a casual air, he said, “Since I'm here anyway, might you direct me to the section about amnesia?”

  “Fiction or nonfiction?”

  His upper lip twitched. “It's regarding Dorothy Tibbits, so you tell me.”

  “I hear she's suffered some kind of terrible illness,” I said. “Rumor is, she's as blank as a water-damaged hard drive. Is it true?”

  He turned back toward the counter, put his elbows on the surface and, moving slowly, leaned over to look down at my puffy, fifties-style skirt. Then my legs. My ankles and shoes. Then back up again, slowly, his steely gray eyes in no hurry.

  “You're wearing a poodle skirt,” he said.

  “Ten points for the detective. You certainly know your fancy dog breeds.”

  “This attempt you're making to modernize is to be commended. The last time I saw you, you looked like you'd just stepped off a pioneer wagon train. Now you're all the way up to the 1950s.” He nodded. “Very interesting.”

  I felt my cheeks getting warm from the compliment. Technically, Detective Bentley had made an observation, not an actual compliment. But the look in his steely gray eyes was very complimentary. Especially when he leaned over the counter to take a second look at my legs.

  “Amnesia,” I said with a professional brightness. “That will be under call number 612.82, where you'll find a few books about the hippocampus and memory.” I plucked a note card from the stack we kept at the counter. “Shall I jot down the call number for you?”

  He tapped his temple. “No need. I have a memory like a steel trap.”

  After a third peek over the counter at my exposed calves, he turned and headed off in the direction of the Human Physiology range of shelves.

  The instant Detective Bentley had disappeared around a corner, Frank appeared at my side. He had an uncanny ability to detect both donuts and handsome male patrons. Frank grabbed the bakery box, peered inside, and squealed with happiness.

  “I'll take these into the break room for Kathy,” he said. “As soon as she's done with her break, I'd like a meeting with you to discuss recent developments.” He gave me a serious look.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Frank and I were digging into the rainbow sprinkle donuts.

  “You've been holding out on me,” Frank said.

  “Now what?”

  “You never told me about the volcanic heat that's been building between you and Mr. Gray Suit.”

  “Volcanic heat? Between me and Bentley?” I rolled my eyes. “When you were at the DWM, did this Dr. Bob fellow check your eyesight?”

  “My eyesight is perfect in both forms. I'm telling you, Zara, I saw the way Mr. Gray Suit was looking at you, and I nearly caught on fire.”

  I s
norted. “Detective Bentley? Please. I've been trying to set him up with my aunt.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he's close to her age, and... I don't know.” Because I thought Chet and I were a done deal.

  “That detective has got your number, girl.” He licked his fingers and grabbed a second donut. “Forget about Chet Moore. That beau is a no-beau. But anyone who brings pastries has my seal of approval.”

  “These are a peace offering from Chloe,” I said, and I relayed my conversation with Bentley.

  That led to us going over everything I knew about Dorothy Tibbits and her recent bout of amnesia. Frank was confused by my recent body-swapping adventures, so I mapped it all out on a napkin.

  After a few questions, he clarified, “Dorothy Tibbits left her body in police custody, and possessed this Josephine girl, whose father was building a doomsday device.”

  “It was an Erasure Machine, but close enough. It would be a doomsday device for anyone who got their mind wiped by it.”

  “And, at the same time, some other unknown bad guy or girl took over your body after your aunt killed you.”

  “After she accidentally transferred my soul out of my body, yes.”

  “I have a theory.” Frank took the pen from my hand, rotated the napkin, and began adding to the stick figure that represented my body. The lines he added were curly and snake-like, coming from my head. “What do you think?”

  My mouth turned sour. Before I could respond to Frank's shocking new theory, one of our pages came in for her shift and greeted us cheerfully. I snatched the napkin from the table and shoved it into the pocket of my poodle skirt.

  I waited for the page to leave, but she didn't. Her shift didn't start for half an hour, and she was settling in to do some reading.

  Frank was waiting patiently for my response to his theory. I pulled out the crumpled napkin and looked at the drawing of myself, in the Pressmans' attic, with snake hair.

  On that horrible night, someone had taken control of my body, and I didn't believe it was simply the ghost of the senior Pressman. It was someone much more powerful, someone evil. Someone working on bigger schemes.

  Frank nodded for me to meet him in the alcove where we kept the cleaning supplies.

  I followed him into the alcove, where I whispered, “I think you're onto something.”

  He raised his pink eyebrows. “You agree that coma-girl Chessa has already taken your body for a full test-drive. The picture certainly fits.”

  I crossed my arms over myself protectively. “She might want a new body, but I'm not done with this one yet.”

  “You need to be very careful,” Frank warned. “Don't go to the DWM tonight with Chet. I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “Listen, if she could take over my body any time, she'd have done so already. The test-drive last week could have been a crime of opportunity, made possible by my zany aunt's spell.”

  Frank snapped his fingers. “Your aunt! You need to get some lotions or potions from her. Something that will act like a barrier.” He gestured at my pink-bloused, poodle-skirted body. “We need something to keep Zara on the inside and spirits on the outside.”

  “Don't think I haven't asked. My aunt is looking into a few things, but for now, all I have is my impeccable fashion sense.”

  He handed me a jar of petroleum jelly. “Here.”

  I gave him a squinty look. “Vaseline? You want me to grease myself up for protection? Is this Holy Vaseline?”

  He gave me a patient smile. “It's for the stack of leather-bound reference volumes that need some softening up.” He winked. “That's why you and I met here in this alcove, remember? We certainly didn't meet here to have an affair. I'm not dreamy Detective Bentley.”

  I rolled my eyes and left the alcove.

  The page who was reading barely glanced up from her book.

  I glanced through the door leading to the front desk. Detective Bentley was currently checking out a stack of books, including a few about brain injuries.

  I lingered in the staff room to kill a few more minutes. After a while, I asked the page, “What are you reading?”

  “It's a book about Werner Herzog,” she said dreamily. “He played a bad guy in the first Jack Reacher movie, but he's also a German movie director. He makes films about heroes with impossible dreams, or people with unique talents.”

  “Impossible dreams and unique talents? That sounds like... some people I know.”

  She replied, “His quotes are so funny and so illuminating.” She closed the book and jumped off her chair. “Smoke break,” she said apologetically. “I know, I should quit. I only started smoking to annoy my mom, and now I'm hooked.”

  After she left, I opened the book and riffled the pages. My aunt had taught me her spell for finding things in books. I performed the spell, and jokingly asked the book to show me something illuminating.

  The book parted to reveal a quote:

  “What would an ocean be without a monster lurking in the dark? It would be like sleep without dreams.” - Werner Herzog

  “Very cheeky,” I whispered to the book. “That sounds an awful lot like something you borrowed from Steinbeck. Let me guess. The ocean is a metaphor for consciousness, and Chessa is the monster within ourselves?” I smiled at my private joke. It sounded exactly like something a German director might say to explain an art film.

  The book wasn't finished. The pages began flipping again. I tried to clear my mind, to erase my previous instruction, but the pages flipped with a fury. One page suddenly ripped itself free of the book and shot into the air. The torn page swayed through the air, tacking from side to side before settling on the table like a fallen autumn leaf.

  On the page was another quote by Werner Herzog: “I believe the common denominator of the universe is not harmony, but chaos, hostility, and murder.”

  “Thanks,” I said dryly to the book. “Good job illuminating for me.” I gently closed the cover.

  I slowly backed away, leaving the book on the table.

  Later in the day, I was still pondering the book's ominous warnings when I got a text message from my neighbor.

  Chet Moore wrote: Cleared for access tonight. I'll pick you up at the end of your shift and we'll go straight down to hell.

  I wrote back: Straight down to hell? No way. Count me out.

  He replied: Damn autocorrect. I meant *straight down to say hello.*

  Sure, you did, I thought. Because who would willingly go straight down to hell?

  Chapter 14

  “Interesting theory, but it wasn't Chessa in your body that night,” Chet said, his eyes on the road ahead.

  He'd picked me up from the library at the end of my shift, and we were now in a Department of Water and Magic van, heading toward the secret DWM headquarters. I wanted more answers than I'd squeezed out of him on the phone that morning, but I didn't dare cast my convincing spell again. I had to rely on my regular human powers of persuasion, appealing to his logical side. Flattery wouldn't hurt, either.

  “But why not?” I asked calmly. “It's only logical. You're a smart guy, so I'm sure it's crossed your mind before now. She's a powerful entity in need of a working body, and my body was available that night. Think about it.”

  He took his eyes off the road and glanced over at me, his expression bordering on playful, much to my surprise. “You think about it,” he said.

  “I've been thinking about it all day. I can't stop thinking about it. In fact, if that light up ahead turns red and you stop the van, I might jump out, grab a broomstick, fly to my house on that broomstick, never mind that I don't know how to fly, then pack my things, and get on the next bus leaving this town. Or if there's no bus, I'll jump on yet another broomstick.”

  The light turned yellow, and he sped through the intersection. “Zara, I know it wasn't Chessa in your body, because whoever it was tried to kill me.”

  “Did it, really? Everything happened so fast. She might have miscommunicated.”

/>   “Your theory is preposterous. Whoever was controlling your body, they had one goal, and that was to feed me to the machine for fuel.” He turned his full attention back to the road and shuddered. “You know, sometimes my clothes will wrinkle against my skin a certain way, and for an instant, I can feel those tentacles sliding over me, finding the perfect places to pierce my skin.”

  “That's awful,” I said. “Does the DWM have a staff therapist you can talk to, or some kind of PTSD treatment?”

  “Forget I said anything,” he growled abruptly. “I'm fine.”

  “Well, if not for you, since you're such a big, strong man who doesn't need help, then how about for me?”

  He gave me a questioning glance. “Do you think you need a therapist?”

  “Of course not,” I snapped. “I'm sure being possessed by the spirit of a woman who tried to kill herself should have no potential negative side effects. None whatsoever.”

  He paused before answering. “I'm right next door. You can always talk to me.”

  “Like how Chessa talked to you? Some help you were. Was it after one of your helpful chats that she cut herself up and dove into the ocean?”

  He winced, and I saw the pain wash over him. I immediately regretted my hurtful words.

  “Chet, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that.”

  “Of course you did.” He kept his eyes on the road. His hollow cheeks grew more shadowed. “No need to apologize. I deserve all that, and more. I mean, if you only knew...” He trailed off and shook his head. “Never mind. What's done is done.”

  We drove in silence.

  I thought of what I'd overheard at Chloe's house, when she was talking to the baby. “Zara is a good witch,” Chloe had said.

  Was I? Was I a good witch? Zara tries to be a good witch, but Zara has a weakness for buttery pastry... and for losing her temper at the people she loves.

  “Chet, I do want to help you and Chessa,” I said with a sigh. “I was just asking about therapy out of concern for you, because I'm a good witch who thinks of others.” Zara is a good witch.