“I'm tougher than I look,” I replied with grit in my voice.
“People think the seafloor is flat, like the beach, but there are pits and canyons you could fall into.”
“I'll be very careful,” I said.
I headed straight for the shore, keeping visual contact with my daughter and not looking back at the man in the yellow boat.
I'd always gotten a friendly, neighborly vibe from Arden, but that trident of his could do some serious damage to a person or creature. Could Chessa have mistaken the man, the trident, plus the dark-brown dog, for an attacking bird?
She might have been shocked and confused if someone was stabbing her with a trident.
Back on shore, I was grateful for the warm, fluffy towel Zoey had brought along for this expedition. And I was glad to be on dry land again.
Chapter 24
“Penny for your thoughts.”
I looked up from the antique wooden card catalog. Our library's database was computerized, and it had been decades since the library had used paper index cards, but the wooden unit with all its tiny drawers brought warmth and character to the center of the atrium. Plus it held a growing collection of tropical houseplants. I'd been tucking the plant fertilizer back into the drawer labeled F.
The man offering me a penny for my thoughts was Detective Bentley.
I gave him a polite smile. “Good morning, Detective. If you'd like the contents of my head, at one penny per thought, that'll be a buck fifty.”
“How about a donut?”
I closed the F drawer and straightened up. “Is there something I can help you with today?”
He looked down at his shiny shoes and chuckled. He straightened his mouth and tried to get control of himself, but the smile kept emerging.
“Detective, if something's that funny, you should share it.” I braced myself for another smart comment about my attire. That morning, I'd dressed in white from head to toe. It was a deliberate tactic to attract Chessa's spirit by dressing like her. Unfortunately, I didn't own a lot of white clothing. There's a reason bright-white trousers are associated with rich people on golf courses and at horse races. If you want to wear white, you need enough cash to make your clothes disposable, and I enjoyed food with vibrant sauces far too much to maintain a white wardrobe.
So, I was wearing the only white thing I had: a vintage wedding dress I'd picked up at a thrift store with the intention of dying it a fun color or harvesting the lace trim for something else. Ever since watching the old eighties movie Pretty in Pink, starring the patron saint of oddball redheads, Molly Ringwald, I'd been in love with the idea of combining multiple dresses into a funky new original.
I fully expected Bentley to comment on my outfit, perhaps calling me Bride of Chucky, as my daughter had that morning, but he didn't.
Still guffawing, he looked up at my face, not my dress. “Do you know Old Man Wheelie? He lives over on Spencer Crescent.”
I leaned against the wooden card catalog casually. “I know his actual name is Wheelchuck, and they started calling him Wheelie after he got the wheelchair, which seems cruel, but I understand it was all his idea.” How did I know that? Had someone at the library told me, or was it residue from Chessa? It felt like something I'd known for a long time, yet I'd only lived in Wisteria a few months.
Bentley didn't notice me spacing out, freaked by my uncanny recall. He kept talking, describing how he'd had to take an early-morning police call for a domestic disturbance because no uniformed officers were available at the time.
“So, I get to his house, and I can hear him yelling, just like the neighbors reported, but I can't find him,” Bentley said. “The front door is unlocked, so I step in and look around. Still no sign of Old Man Wheelie. But I hear this thumping sound. I go out the back door, and I nearly trip over a pair of disembodied legs.”
Now he had my full attention. “What?”
“Don't worry. They were just prosthetics. A few years back, Wheelie had them custom made, fitting right below the knee. Now, most days, he gets around in the wheelchair, but for special occasions and group photos, he'll use the legs and walk around. And, apparently, he also uses them to climb a ladder when he wants to go up on the roof and think.” Bentley made the motion of tipping back a bottle. “And by think, I do mean drink.”
“Up on top of his roof? Sure, I can see it. He probably wanted a better view of the stars.”
“Plus there's something to be said for being on a different plane than other people.” He moved his hands through the air as though petting the back of a tall horse. “By which I mean a different elevation. It helps your head to feel clearer to be on a different stratum. Like when you're on the top floor of a skyscraper, or at the peak of a mountain, high above everyone.”
“Or flying,” I said.
“Like a bird,” we both said in unison.
“Like a bird,” he repeated. “Or in an airplane.”
“Okay,” I said. “So, Old Man Wheelie was stuck up on his roof like Humpty Dumpty, drunk and yelling at people?”
“He'd been up there all night and had mostly sobered up. But he accidentally dropped his legs off the roof, so he couldn't get himself back down the ladder. He'd managed to call over a couple of kids who were walking by on the way to school, but when they saw the legs on the ground, the boys screamed and ran.” Bentley laughed before regaining control over himself. “That's why I had to take the noise disturbance call. The kids' parents had phoned in a report of a strange homicide, but they weren't sure of the address, so all the on-duty uniforms were searching the surrounding neighborhood for body parts.”
“What did you do? Climb the ladder and bring him his legs?”
Bentley blinked at me, dead serious. “No. I just left him there. Do you think I should go back?”
“Of course you should go back! Are you going to leave a legless man on a roof all day lo—” I stopped talking. “You're teasing me.”
Bentley smiled. “Yes, I brought him his legs, and then made sure he got down safely. I called the other officers, and we brought the traumatized kids over for an explanation plus milk and cookies.” He made a brushing-off gesture with both hands. “And the town of Wisteria is safe for another day.”
I tossed my hair and leaned forward to press my hands girlishly against Bentley's broad chest. “Thank goodness we have the likes of you to protect us, Detective.”
He looked down at my hands on his chest. “All's well that ends well.”
I cleared my throat and gracefully withdrew my hands. “Is there anything I can do for you, as a librarian?”
“No. I was just returning that amnesia book.” Now he stared at the lace on my bustier, seemingly noticing the vintage wedding dress for the first time. “You're a beautiful bride,” he said, and then he quickly looked away, turning his back to me. “Oops,” he said over his shoulder. “I don't need to accumulate any more bad luck.”
“It's just a white dress,” I said. “And that superstition only applies to the groom.”
“I'd like to keep my options open,” he said with a nod, and then he walked away with his head held high as he left the library.
Behind me, a creature made a hooting noise.
I turned around to find Kathy with a huge grin on her face. She sang, “Zara and Bentley, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
“Not likely,” I said. “Honestly, up until this week, I thought he hated me.”
“It's a fine line between love and hate. And I should know.” She paused dramatically. “Because I'm married.”
“Oh, Kathy. I don't know if that's funny or sad.”
“Me neither,” she said, making a strange sound that could have been laughing or tearless crying.
For the rest of the day, I thought about what Bentley had said—about him marrying me, but also about Old Man Wheelie trying to find somewhere peaceful to think.
A library is a wonderful place to think, but I spend most of my days inside a library, so I was used to the
quiet, accustomed to it. If I wanted to find somewhere even more peaceful, such as the bottom of the ocean, I'd have to get creative.
* * *
That Friday night, I visited the ocean for the fourth time that week.
This time, however, everything was different.
I'd had enough of Chessa's teasing, luring me to the ocean only to have me flail around like a mere mortal. I wanted to see the beautiful seafloor and swim with the fishes. And why not?
I was the captain of my own ship, the master of my destiny.
I was a witch who didn't let obstacles such as a constant need for oxygen stand in her way.
I was a novice scuba diver at her very first diving lesson.
“You look ridiculous in that getup,” Zoey said, laughing. “You walk like a penguin.”
I replied, “And you, young lady, walk like a duck who ate too much dinner.”
“Quack, quack.” Zoey took a bow, her neoprene suit squeaking from her movement.
Our scuba diving instructor, an endlessly patient and hunky man named Leo, continued loading up the boat with scuba diving supplies.
Zoey and I linked arms and attempted to square dance, comically encumbered by the enormous diving flippers on our feet.
Chapter 25
After our first dive, Zoey said breathing oxygen from a tank was “intriguing,” but she preferred sticking to non-water places, where the oxygen was readily available. She asked if she could take the money I'd been willing to pay for her diving lessons and apply them to a future sport or activity of her choice. I'd agreed readily.
We went home exhausted after our first lesson, but she stayed up late quizzing me from the assigned reading for my diving education.
When I shared my new interest with Aunt Zinnia, she wasn't thrilled about my lack of devotion to my novice witch studies. But she reluctantly agreed that learning to dive could be a worthwhile pursuit.
“You ought to do what you can to help a lost spirit,” Aunt Zinnia said. “Please, just promise me you won't put your life in danger.”
I'd groaned and told her that was why I was getting trained in diving rather than just barging into it without a clue. Besides, I'd tried barging in a few times already, and it hadn't worked.
At work the next week, Frank applauded my efforts to acquire a new skill.
“This is what lifelong learning looks like,” Frank said, proudly pointing to me while he told some library patrons about my new interest in scuba diving. “Zara is a true seeker of wisdom, a Renaissance woman.”
Kathy agreed. Later that same day, she called me aside and asked if there were any attractive men participating in the local dives. I confessed to her that the vast majority of them were attractive men, and having all that eye candy around was a true test of my memorization of the diving safety protocols.
Kathy commented with an eyebrow waggle, “Who wouldn't love to be tested like that?”
“It's great fun, but I feel guilty for having so much fun with all those cute guys,” I said. “I'm the only female there, surrounded by a half dozen of the handsomest bachelors in town. It's scandalous.”
“Why? You're single, aren't you?”
“I'm—” I bit off the word engaged. I wasn't engaged. It was just Chessa's spirit that made me feel guilty whenever the instructor, Leo, leaned in close to help me with my tanks. It was Chessa who made me say no to an invitation to have drinks at the pub with the other male students.
Chessa was a real buzzkill for my dating life. How could I move on and get past my crush on her fiancé if she wouldn't let me?
Kathy wished me luck with my lessons, and we both got back to our jobs.
* * *
Between my job and the after-work scuba diving lessons, the week went by quickly. I focused on learning how to dive safely, but my mind was never free of thoughts about Chessa or fleeting emotions from her memories. Our connection was growing stronger, building to something. Each dive seemed to invigorate her life force, each visit to the sea acting like a puff of breath blown over hot coals.
She and I were on a journey together. Where was this metaphysical road trip taking me? I'd have to wait and find out once we got there.
I suspected it wasn't just the ocean bringing Chessa to me. At my diving sessions, I was the only female, surrounded by healthy, vigorous men. The attention they paid me was not at all diminished by being shared by two women: me, and the stylish blonde who dropped in from time to time. And her presence radiated out, affecting my reality. Not a single one of the men teased me about having red hair or being a librarian. It was a first.
Our diving instructor in particular, Leo, seemed to have a glint in his eye whenever he spoke to me.
On Thursday evening, when I looked at the man, while the setting sun turned our faces golden, I felt a buried memory surface, an emotion. Anger over someone's betrayal. The desire to hurt someone, to punish them. I quickly turned away from his face. Don't start another fight, I told myself with what sounded like Chloe's voice. Leo continued joking around with the other guys on the boat, and soon we were diving, down where we weren't men or women, single or otherwise, just black-and-blue things with goggles and flippers and bubbles.
Later that evening, when I got home, I found Chet sitting on my front step. I had been yawning, exhausted from the dive. The instant I saw him, I stopped, mid-yawn, and my tiredness disappeared.
Chet pointed a thumb at my front door. “Your daughter said you'd be home any minute from diving.”
“So you decided to wait in ambush?”
He frowned and got to his feet. “You've been avoiding me, screening my calls. It's been over a week.”
It was true. I hadn't felt like chatting since the previous Wednesday. “Eight days,” I said. “It's been eight days, which is barely a week.”
“Zara, I live right next door. You can't avoid me forever.” He looked at the bracelet on my wrist. “We should take you to see her again, as soon as you're ready. Unless you've had some progress on your own?”
“That depends. Is it possible the cuts on Chessa could have come from a fishing spear?”
He looked surprised. “Did you see something in one of your visions?”
“Not exactly,” I said, and I explained about my second watery meeting with our neighbor, Arden. I described the yellow boat, the sharp trident, and Arden's declaration that he was a “monster hunter.”
Every word from my mouth seemed to cause Chet more pain. He backed away from me along the front walkway.
Hoarsely, he said, “That's something I can look into myself.” He turned to look in the direction of Arden's house, up the street. “I know exactly who you mean.”
An emotion flickered across his face, like a fire crackling to life behind his eyes.
“Don't hurt him,” I said. “He's just a harmless old man.”
“I'll do what I need to do,” he growled.
I grabbed him by the arm. “Chet, without our humanity, we are lost.”
His posture changed, his tension melting. The red fire in his eyes simmered down. His voice low yet soft, he said, “That's something Chessa used to say.”
“And for good reason,” I said. “She's right. Without our humanity, we are lost.” I released his arm. “Keep a cool head.”
“I will,” he promised.
“Try to relax,” I said. “That's something my scuba instructor, Leo, is teaching me. You've gotta stay loose so your muscles work the way they're designed to. If you're all stiff and tense, things bunch up.”
He took a few steps away from me and stopped. “Leo?”
“My scuba instructor. He's nice. You'd like him.”
“If you say so,” Chet said darkly. He reached up and grabbed a leaf from one of my overgrown hedges. “What are you doing Saturday morning?”
“Sleeping. It's been a busy week, and tomorrow's a big day.”
“Well, when you do crawl out of bed, come over to my place. You're right about me needing to relax. I'm going to
throw a Grownups' Brunch.”
“That sounds fun. What should I bring?”
He pointed both index fingers at me like imaginary guns. “Just bring your bad librarian self,” he said. “Around ten o'clock. You can bring Leo if you want.”
I snorted. Leo? Oh, no. I would never subject him to brunch with Chet.
Chapter 26
It took me a full week to get my scuba diving certification, which is fast. I was disappointed to not break the local record of three days, but there are only so many hours in the day, and I did have to put in some shifts at the library.
The Saturday morning after completion of my scuba diving lessons, I woke up fuzzy headed.
My memory was working perfectly, though, and I knew I had to get up and go next door to the Moore house for Saturday brunch.
I tapped on my skull and groaned, “Begone, Spirits of the Deep, and take with you the residual of last night's margaritas.”
The night before, my diving group had insisted on celebrating my certification. I could feel Chessa's spirit disapproving, but I threw caution to the wind and said yes. I was in the mood for fun.
The scuba instructor, Leo, took us to a cheesy sports bar that had a diving theme. The place was called The Dive Bar. They served fruity cocktails in miniature fishbowls, complete with floating frozen fruit chunks shaped to look like fish. I'd tried every flavor. And that was before the karaoke.
With a groan, I dragged myself into the shower, lathered my body and hair in every kind of product we had on hand, and emerged feeling fresh as a daisy. Ten points for having the recovery powers of a witch; hangovers weren't so bad.
I stood in front of my closet. Now, if only my witch powers could help me find the perfect outfit to wear to Chet's house for brunch.
Why not modify a spell to suit my needs?
I knew a spell to locate a place in a book, and a spell to pick out the ripest cantaloupe. What if I combined aspects of both of those spells, substituting a few words, and including a phrase about forecasting the weather, to make the spell pick out the perfect clothes for the day?
3-Book Series Bundle: Wisteria Witches, Wicked Wisteria, Wisteria Wonders - Cozy Witch Mysteries Page 64