Still bug eyed, she said, “But we've only just found out about the W-I-you-know-what thing. Isn't that more than enough for our first week?”
“Today's Saturday, so technically now it's our second week.”
She looked skyward. “I don't know why I even try to argue with you.”
“It's good practice for one day when you're a lawyer.” I shooed her toward our front door. “Go in there and climb into bed. I'll zip over to the store and grab a few things. How about eleven? People have brunch at eleven, right?”
“I'm in high school,” she said flatly. “Teenagers don't do brunch.”
“I guess if you wait until noon, it's just called lunch, and you can't drink champagne and orange juice at lunch or people think you're a lush.”
“Are you possessed again? Look me in the eyes and tell me your name.”
With my most snooty voice, I declared, “I'm Winona Vander Zalm, and I throw the most spectacular brunch parties. They're the toast of the town.” I snickered. “Get it? The toast of the town.”
She shook her head. “That jolt must have fried your circuits.”
I raised my arms in the air and twirled around. “I feel great! Sure, the whole world smells like singed Barbie dolls, and I pulled a fiercely charred booger out of my nose when you weren't looking, but I feel spectacular!”
She gave me a sleepy head shake and let herself into our house.
I ran up to the Moores' front door and knocked out a happy rhythm.
The eldest member of the family, Don Moore, opened the door the width of one cagey eyeball.
“Good morning, Grampa Don! I hope you don't mind me calling you that. Your son told me everyone in the neighborhood calls you Grampa Don, and I'm definitely part of the neighborhood now. I'm Zara Riddle. Remember, we met last week when I came over here to chat about your delightful grandson?”
Within the door crack, Grampa Don's eye narrowed. “Witch,” he said. “You're the witch.”
“What makes you say that?” Was it that obvious?
“You came over here in your black dress, waving a broom.” He looked down at the ankle boots I'd liberated from my aunt's house. “And those are witch booties.”
I laughed loudly, leaning forward and slapping my knee. “Grampa Don, you're quite the jokester.”
He didn't shake my hand or open the door any wider. He turned and yelled, “Chet! Your crazy girlfriend is here!”
“Girlfriend?” I took a step back. “Grampa Don, you shouldn't call people things like witch or crazy. It's offensive, but not so bad that I won't invite you to brunch.”
“Brunch?” He gave me a sideways look. “You mean like a Grown-ups Brunch? We haven't had one of those in a long time. Almost a year.”
“Yes. A Grown-ups Brunch. It's free, and right next door. Come over at eleven, and bring Chet and Corvin.”
He looked over his shoulder again for a moment then said, “Chet must be in the bathroom right now. He's not coming down the stairs. Either he's in the shower, or he doesn't want to see you because he can tell you're—” He cut himself off and muttered, “I shouldn't be rude.”
“Will you come over? I'll be offended if you don't.”
Gruffly, he said, “Will there be bacon?” He licked his lips.
“Acres of bacon,” I promised. “Several kinds.”
“See you there.” He nodded curtly and closed the door.
I sailed down the steps and nearly knocked over a familiar-looking woman.
“You're up early,” she said.
The woman had one hand on her hip and one hand carrying a wicker basket.
“Dorothy Tibbits!” I shook her hand. The real estate agent was dressed, as she'd been the previous times I'd met her, in a blue pinafore and sparkling red shoes similar to the ones Judy Garland wore in The Wizard of Oz. She didn't have Toto with her, much to my disappointment. The little dog, a Cairn terrier, was adorable and surprisingly cuddly.
“I didn't expect to see you,” Dorothy said.
“Are you selling another house in the neighborhood?” I looked around her for Open House signs. There weren't any to be seen. She was, however, adjusting the tea towel over her wicker basket, seemingly hiding something.
“Not yet,” she said, using her free hand to twirl one of her dark-brown pigtails.
I leaned over and snuck a peek into the gap between the towel and the basket. She was carrying binoculars.
“Binoculars? Dorothy Tibbits, you naughty girl, are you stalking someone?”
“I am a naughty girl!” She let out a high-pitched laugh that startled a flock of brown birds to fly out of the nearby bushes.
Something inside me urged me to question the woman. It was the same compulsion I'd felt when I'd decided to invite the Moores for brunch.
Was this the spirit of Winona Vander Zalm pushing me around? Suddenly, I regretted leaving my aunt's house without getting at least a primer on how to deal with possessions.
“Dorothy Tibbits, what are you up to with those binoculars?”
“These silly things?” She batted her eyelashes innocently and smiled. Her overtightened face looked like it might pop something if she smiled any wider. “I use these to inspect roofs without needing to climb a ladder.”
“Why not send up your flying monkeys?”
Dorothy blinked at me, her eerily smooth face expressionless. If she was feeling any emotion at that moment, the Botox did an admirable job of hiding it.
“Flying monkeys,” I explained. “Like in the Wizard of Oz.” I gestured to her blue pinafore dress and sparkling red shoes. “Because of your whole shtick.”
She looked over at my house and then back at me. Skirting the whole issue of flying monkeys and how they might be deployed in a real estate capacity, she said, “I hope you and your daughter are settling in. These old houses can be difficult, the way they're all chopped up into smaller rooms.”
“We do get lost sometimes, but we put those map things on our phones.”
She blinked again. “You get lost? Inside the house?”
I know when my unique sense of humor is being wasted. I patted her on the shoulder. “It's nice to see you again, Dorothy.”
She nodded. “And I am so glad that you are so pleased with your home purchase. It makes me so happy.” She looked right through me. “Zara, if you happen to change your mind, for any reason whatsoever, please don't hesitate to call. I'm, uh, running a new special. If you, er, sell within six months of purchase, there's no sales commission. Zero.” Her gaze went to my house, and she licked her lips.
Dorothy Tibbits, you are the world's worst real estate agent, I said to myself. When I'd first toured my house, she'd all but told me not to buy it. And then, when I put in my offer, she literally told me not to buy it. She tried to tempt me with a dozen brand new listings. She'd called the Pocket Listings and sworn that the regular public didn't even know they were available.
Why had she been dead-set against me buying my lovely red house? Did she know about the ghost?
“Dorothy, thanks for the offer,” I said. “I'll think about it.”
“Call me anytime,” she said.
I thanked her again and excused myself. Then I stopped and turned around.
“Dorothy, do you know anything about my house being haunted?”
“What?” She brought her free hand up to her face and covered her mouth. “Oh, no. There haven't been any crimes in that house. It would be on the property disclosure.”
“Not crimes. Just ghosts. Or one ghost, in particular.”
She still had her hand over her mouth, and now the hand was trembling. “I-I-I don't know,” she stammered. “I'll have to ask my boss about that.”
“Your boss is an expert on ghosts?”
She looked up at the sky just as a giant bird soared overhead. The thing was larger than the biggest eagle I'd ever seen. It had to be the same bird I'd seen on Monday, outside the library.
“Dorothy, do you see that bird? Is that what you
're doing with the binoculars? Birdwatching?”
The bird disappeared beyond some tall trees.
I tore my attention away from the sky and turned to look at Dorothy.
She had taken off and was already halfway up the street.
I called after her, “Dorothy, would you like to come to brunch?”
She kept going. She was speed-walking so fast, her red sequined shoes kept slipping off her feet. She picked them up and continued walking barefoot.
Chapter 16
After hours of food shopping and preparation, I took a moment to admire my centerpiece. It was a bouquet of flowers carved from fresh fruit. Kebab skewers formed the sturdy stems, which sprang from the top of a colorful teapot. I'd used cookie cutters to make flower petal rounds from various melons and fresh berries for the flower centers. I'd even crushed raspberries to dye the pineapple hearts a lovely pink. The real stars were the blueberry hyacinths.
I had really outdone myself with my first-ever edible arrangement. Best of all, preparing all the brunch food had made me feel calm and centered. There's nothing like working with your hands to let your mind relax, and I really needed it after my whopper of a morning. Not only did my house have a ghost, but the Riddle family tree was—pardon the pun—riddled with witchcraft.
On some level, I knew I should be worried that the spirit of Winona Vander Zalm was infecting me with her socialite desires, but I could also see the positive side of her influence. Before moving to Wisteria, I'd sold off most of my book collection. My to-be-read list had been growing faster than I could read them, and that had always been a source of anxiety to me. It wasn't a huge worry, but it was always there, bugging me.
I should build more of a social life, I'd told myself. Even introverts need some positive interaction to feel balanced. Besides, I wasn't so sure I was an introvert. My daughter certainly was, and introversion is common among librarians, but I'd never been a typical librarian.
So, with the goal of becoming more social after the move, I'd declared bankruptcy on my to-be-read pile. I put the books up for sale, converted my heavy stack of stress back to cash, and even saved money on the move. To new, nonfictional adventures, I'd told myself as I cleared away the last stack.
And then, like the answer to my prayers, a very social and outgoing woman had come into my life. By magic.
Did it matter that Winona Vander Zalm was dead? She could still be a great mentor.
I smiled and hummed a happy tune to myself as I placed the finishing-touch berries on the sweet-smelling centerpiece.
The doorbell rang again.
I tilted my face up to the kitchen ceiling. “Doorbell!” I knew Zoey was out of bed because I'd heard floor squeaks from her movements.
My daughter ever-so-helpfully yelled back, her voice floating down the stairwell, “Mom! Doorbell!”
I yelled again, “Doorbell!” Did she not remember the conversation about how getting the door was her job?
The bell rang again.
She stomped down the stairs and came into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes.
The doorbell rang again.
“Doorbell,” she said.
“You think?”
She finished rubbing her eyes and blinked at the operation that was taking place in the kitchen. The edible bouquet was complete, and I was stirring the contents of three pots on the stove plus four bowls on the kitchen island. Spread out around me was more food than I'd cooked in the past year.
The doorbell rang again.
“I'll get the door,” she said.
“Great idea.”
She rolled her eyes as she left the kitchen.
While she got the door, I grabbed a clean bowl and blended my raspberry sauce with fresh whipped cream. I listened, smiling, as she greeted our brunch guests.
The elder Moore was friendlier to her than he'd been to me. “Call me Grampa Don,” he said with a pleasant, grandfatherly tone. “Or even Grampy. I like that. But not Grumpy. I don't like that.”
I heard Corvin whine, “No, Grampy! That's my special name for you! She can't say it.”
“You heard my grandson,” Grampa Don said. “That's his name for me, so you can't call me Grampy when he's around.” He chuckled good-naturedly then said in a more serious tone, “I was promised there would be acres of bacon. I don't smell any bacon.”
“Absolutely no bacon for my father,” Chet said. “He's got to watch his cholesterol.”
The old man retorted, “I'm leaving if there's no bacon. I'll stay only if I can have five slices.”
“Two,” Chet said.
“Three slices of bacon,” Don said. “Plus all the coffee I want. Final offer.”
Chet sighed. “Deal.”
My daughter steered them toward the dining room while asking about food allergies. They didn't have any food issues except for Corvin's “extremely horrible” allergy to Brussels sprouts, which were “basically poison,” according to him. Zoey assured him there would be no Brussels sprouts at brunch.
Zoey returned to the kitchen. “Need a hand?” She reached for a slice of crispy bacon and started munching it. “Here, I'll fix the bacon. There should be an odd number of slices when you serve it, because odd numbers are more aesthetically pleasing.”
“How did you count the bacon so quickly? Is this a sign of your you-know-what powers kicking in?”
“Bacon comes in even numbers from the package, so I just deduced.”
“Speaking of deduce, you can run de juice out to our guests.”
She groaned at my pun, which was the main reason I cracked puns.
“Take the coffee pot,” I said. “And the young gentleman may have his choice of juice boxes.”
She grabbed the coffee and looked over the spread with widening eyes. “Did you leave any food at the store for the rest of Wisteria?”
“You've always wanted me to cook more. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Tell our guests the first batch of crepes is on the way!”
She used her free hand to pick up the tray of cream and sugar. “Mom, are you sure you're feeling okay? Most people would want some quiet time to get used to the idea of being a you-know-what.”
“Idle hands are the devil's playground,” I said. “Or the devil's workshop, depending on your choice of translation.”
“Talking about the devil is not exactly reassuring.”
I shrugged. “I've got the rest of my life to learn how to curdle milk or talk to beavers or whatever it is we can do. Today, let's have a stylish brunch with our neighbors.”
“As you wish.” She tossed her wavy red locks over her shoulder and left with the coffee.
Alone again, I silently thanked my house for having an old-fashioned layout with the kitchen in its own private area, walled off. I wouldn't have felt comfortable contorting my body to stir multiple pans of food at once if I were on display for guests.
With one hand on the crepe flipper and one hand swirling the raspberry topping, that left me with zero hands to stir the chocolate sauce in the top of the double boiler.
What to do?
If only there were a way for me to stir the sauce with no hands.
I felt a swirling, trembling feeling inside myself, as though I was about to sneeze, but I didn't sneeze.
The spoon in the chocolate sauce righted itself and began to stir.
Hands free.
By magic.
Hot diggity dog, I thought. I've got telekinesis.
Ziggity!
Chapter 17
Telekinesis.
Wow.
The floating water glass, I thought, remembering my first night of sleeptoasting. The water glass had appeared to hover over the floor by magic because it was hovering by magic.
My magic.
I experimented with my new power and found that, for the moment anyway, telekinesis was more of a distraction than it was helpful. While I could use my powers to magically stir a spoon through chocolate sauce, it required enough concentration that my hands sl
owed at their tasks—like trying to pat your head and rub circles on your stomach at the same time. I needed to grow a bigger brain, or at least get some practice. Telekinesis apparently required a special type of focus—a focus I did not yet have.
Zoey returned to the kitchen to help me platter the food.
“Is everyone behaving out there?”
“Yes.” She gave me a suspicious look. “Why are you staring at me with googly eyes like that?”
“Me? Googly eyes?” I blinked innocently.
“Yeah. Like you've got a big secret and you want to tell me, but you know you shouldn't, because it would be inappropriate—not that it stops you. Or like you've done something bad and secretly you want to get busted.” She looked over at some empty bottles next to the sink. “Are you drunk?”
“That wine bottle is from last night's dinner with Zinnia. And the beer bottles... Actually, I don't know where those came from.”
“Those must be from Zinnia's guy,” Zoey said. “The one who came over to sweep the house for listening bugs or spell bombs. He set up some wards, which are kind of like burglar alarms for magic. Zinnia said the wards wouldn't keep out any ghosts who were already in.” She walked over to the bottles and looked at the labels. “These are from a local brewery.”
“What kind of professional drinks two bottles of beer on the job? What did she say this guy was?”
Zoey shrugged. “Sort of a cleaner.”
“Like in Pulp Fiction? I've seen that movie enough times to be concerned. The cleaner goes in and cleans up, all right. And then he kills everyone, Zoey.”
She seemed more interested in the label than my dire warning. “This guy's a friend of Auntie Z's. I'm sure he's not a professional murder assassin.” She stole two more strips of crisp bacon. “Probably.”
“Help me get this food to the dining room before you eat it all.”
The three generations of Moores were dressed in crisp dress shirts, all in shades of green, like a multi-generational sports team. Grampa Don had shaved since I'd last seen him. He was handsome for a man his age, even when arguing with his son about how much bacon he could have.
Chet and his father both rose from their chairs when I entered the dining room.
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