She kept pouting. If anything, she pouted harder.
With a flick of my finger, I pulled up a dollop of custard, floated it across the table, and dropped it straight down on her pouting lower lip.
Her eyes bulged in surprise.
My mouth twisted into a wicked grin. After so many years of me warning her what might happen to little girls who pouted while a bird just happened to be flying by, it had finally happened. Sort of.
Zoey didn't find my new trick quite so magnificent. From the look on her face, you would have thought an actual bird flew into the room and pooped on her.
“Evil!” She rubbed the custard away with a napkin and pointed at me with an accusing finger. “Witch!”
I shrugged. “Tell me something I don't know.”
She spluttered, “You're not supposed to do things to other witches!”
“It must have been an invisible bird,” I said, craning my neck to search the room's upper corners. “Didn't you see it flying around?”
“Witch.” She pointed a finger at my face accusingly.
While she was distracted, I used my magic to fold a napkin into an origami bird. I covered my hand with my mouth and said, “Caw! Caw!” The white napkin bird fluttered up from the table and flew around the room.
“Evil,” she said, not even cracking a grin. “And you won't even show me how you're doing all these cool tricks, so that makes you double evil.”
“I swear I'm not trying to keep anything from you. I don't know how I'm doing these things. I'm sorry if I'm making it look easy, but it is. I simply look at something, imagine the motions needed, and it starts happening.” I shrugged as a miniature scone topped with peach jam sailed through the air toward my mouth. I made it disappear to where the waffles had gone.
Zoey's arms were still crossed. “You're going to gain a million pounds,” she said.
“Nope.” I shook my head. “This sort of thing burns a ton of calories.” I didn't know how I knew that, but I did. “I can feel the calories burning away inside me, in my witch furnace.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You might be right,” she admitted. “It takes energy to move matter, and the energy has to come from somewhere.”
“If that's true, then becoming a witch is the greatest thing that has ever happened to anyone, anywhere. Oh, the things we're going to eat!”
Zoey twisted her lips to the side. “I've got homework,” she said plainly.
“On Saturday? You always have your homework finished Friday night.”
“I just remembered I have more,” she lied, unconvincingly.
“But what about this mess? You think these dishes are going to wash themselves?”
She walked over to where I sat and patted me on the shoulder. “Yes, Mom. I think the dishes are going to wash themselves.” She let out a witchy cackle. “Go to it. Make the dishes wash themselves. It will be good practice.”
I clenched my fist and swung my arm theatrically. “Curses!”
“No curses,” she said. “Auntie Z said something about a curse at dinner, and she wouldn't explain what she meant, but it didn't sound good.”
“I was joking,” I said.
“Right.” She gave me a somewhat dirty look and then stomped out of the dining room.
I stared after her and let the smile drop off my face.
I'd tried to keep the tone light and breezy so she wouldn't feel too much pressure. One of the reasons Zoey did her homework on Friday night was because she hated leaving things to the last minute. She couldn't take the pressure, especially if any performance was involved. Despite our similar appearances, that was one key difference between the two of us. If we were to attend a karaoke party, I'd be the first to volunteer for a song and she'd be the last. That was, assuming I could even drag her to a karaoke night. She could be fun, but it had to be planned in advance. It caused her immense anxiety to have last-minute plans sprung upon her.
I wondered, was my daughter's dislike of spontaneity the thing keeping her powers from manifesting?
Or was there something more sinister—or disappointing—in play?
Chapter 19
While Zoey did her pretend “homework” upstairs, I used my witch powers to clean up from brunch.
Small objects were easy, but I struggled with the coffee pot. I could lift it, but I couldn't pour without making a mess.
I wasn't that surprised heavy things were beyond my skill level. The power had to be like a muscle, needing repeated practice and concentration to get stronger. Unfortunately, my concentration skills were lacking. I did manage to get the dishes “washing themselves,” but as soon as my mind wandered, the scrub brush and sponge would stop moving. The regular dishwasher outdid my magic easily.
What I didn't expect was how satisfying it was to use magic. For example, wringing out a kitchen sponge was utterly delightful. I could squeeze it either by replicating the way I'd squeeze it non-magically, with one hand squishing the sponge, or I could stretch it from both ends and wring it in a perfect twist. The mid-air twist was both aesthetically pleasing as well as effective. If I wrung the sponge for too long, it became bone-dry and unable to wipe up anything.
I could have spent an hour practicing my sponge-twisting technique, but I was interrupted by a knock at the door.
My heart pounded guiltily as my mind raced with paranoia. It was the witch police! They could tell I was practicing magic without their authorization and without half a clue!
The knocking came again, heavier this time. Urgent. Authoritative.
Why weren't they using the doorbell? I couldn't yell doorbell at my daughter if there was no ding-dong.
I untied my spotless apron, left it on the clean kitchen island, and went to open the front door.
Nobody was there. The porch was empty. I leaned out and glanced up and down the street. An older male neighbor was walking his brown Labradoodle across the street. He saw me looking and gave me a friendly wave. People in Wisteria were so friendly.
I waved back and called out, “Was someone at my door just a minute ago?”
He held one hand to his ear and started crossing toward me. “What's that?”
“Never mind,” I said. “I thought I heard someone knocking on my door, but it must have been my teenage daughter playing a joke on me.”
He reached my steps and stopped at the bottom. His Labradoodle, which was one of the taller ones I'd seen, launched itself up the stairs toward me. I stretched out my hand to be sniffed and licked by the happy pooch.
The man said, “Teenage daughter? You're too young to have a teenager.” He waggled his white, fluffy eyebrows. “Maybe you're imagining things. The Red Witch House has that effect on people.”
My ears began to ring, as if an internal alarm had been triggered inside me. He'd said the word “witch.” Did people say the “word” witch all the time and I hadn't noticed until now?
The soft-curled brown dog continued to nose my hand and then tried to sneak past me into my house.
I said to the man, “I'm sorry, but what did you say? Does my house have a name?”
The older man chuckled. “All the kids in the neighborhood call this the Red Witch House.”
“Because a Red Witch lives here? Or used to?”
“It's probably because of the Gothic Revival architecture,” he said. “It reminds people of Tim Burton movies, I suppose. Most of the other heritage houses around here are in the Craftsman style.” He looked up at the facade and the gingerbread trim that I'd loved from the minute I'd seen it. He continued, “Personally, I've always loved this home. I found its previous owner eccentric, but in a good way. Winona was a lovely woman. It's such a shame she killed herself that way.”
I was petting the Labradoodle, but suddenly I couldn't feel my hands. The friendly dog could have been eating my thumbs and I wouldn't have noticed.
“The owner killed herself?”
“That didn't come out right,” he said. “I meant that she killed herself in the same way
people who drive dangerously kill themselves by their own carelessness.”
I glanced over at the blue house next door. Chet had told me Winona Vander Zalm went peacefully, but it seemed he'd been lying to me.
“Forgive me for asking,” I said. “How did she die?”
The man tugged on the dog's leash. “Doodles, leave the nice lady alone. Let's go home, girl. Or do you want to go monster hunting? What do you say, girl?”
“Monster hunting?” I stopped petting the dog with my numb hands and walked down my steps. I met the man on the sidewalk and extended my hand. “Zara Riddle,” I said. “My daughter, who really is a teenager, and I just moved in here.”
He shook my hand. “I'm Arden, and that's Doodles.” He wrinkled his nose and glanced down at our hands, which were both slick from his dog's tongue. He chuckled as we released our handshake. “Zara, you and I are now dog-spit bonded.”
“Oh.” I couldn't care less about the dog spittle, but I wiped my hand on my hip to conform to social norms.
With a casual tone, I said, “Arden, I don't mean to be morbid, but nobody will tell me how Ms. Vander Zalm passed away.” I batted my eyelashes in a manner I hoped was charming. “Since we're dog-spit buddies now, you'll tell me, right?”
Arden's gray eyes got a faraway look. “That woman loved her Pop-Tarts,” he said. “She could whip up a five-course meal fit for a king, but when it came to comfort food, she loved her Pop-Tarts. She told me all about her habits whenever we met up at the dog park down the street.” He smiled wistfully, his eyes still unfocused. “She hadn't had a dog in years, but she always brought home-made dog treats for Doodles. That's why my dog's trying to get into your house. Poor girl doesn't know the old lady's gone.”
Right on cue, Doodles sat by her master's feet with a sad whimper.
We still weren't any closer to the method of my ghost's demise. I ventured a guess. “Did she stick a fork in the toaster while making Pop-Tarts and electrocute herself in the kitchen?”
He chuckled. “Winona didn't make Pop-Tarts in the kitchen,” he said. “She made them in the bathroom while she took long baths in the claw-foot tub.”
A cloud of chilly air whooshed up my back and blew right through me. Was that the point of the sleeptoasting? Had the woman's spirit been trying to tell me about her accident? Trying to warn me not to make the same mistake?
“Did she drop the toaster in the bathtub?”
He nodded, his expression turning serious. “That's what folks figure happened. It was very odd.”
“But that shouldn't kill a person,” I said. “It's just one of those urban legends. I saw the toaster thing demonstrated on that TV show where they try things from movies. Dropping a small appliance into a tub would short out the circuit and blow the electrical breaker long before it delivered enough electricity to kill someone.”
Arden blinked and stared at me, forehead wrinkled. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“Of course not,” I said quickly. “Just wondering if the toaster thing is a rumor. Maybe something the pesky local children made up.” I was thinking of one pesky local child in particular. He had big eyes, blue-black hair, and might be able to see dead people.
Doodles whimpered again. Her owner glanced up at the highest peak of my roof. “We're being watched,” he said.
I followed his gaze to my roof, where a blue jay was perched. A really big blue jay. The bird ruffled its dark blue head crest and stared back at us.
I waved at the bird. “Hello, blue jay.”
Arden's clothes rustled as he shuffled away from me. “Nice to meet you, Zara. You have a good day, and I'll see you around.” He gave the dog's leash a tug, and they were on their way.
“Nice meeting you,” I called after them. “And I'll have you know my house is just a regular house. I'm going to paint it a different color, so it won't be red anymore and stupid kids can't call it the Red Witch House!”
Change the paint from Wisconsin Barn Red? I could do that. I could do anything I wanted to. Now that I was an actual witch, I needed to keep a low profile, and living in something called the Red Witch House wasn't ideal.
I put my hands on my hips and looked up at the bird on the peak.
“Hey, blue jay. What do you think? Should I paint the house blue, like you?”
The blue jay let out a squawk.
“I suppose not,” I said in agreement. Blue would be copying the Moore house next door.
I asked the bird, “How about green? Something to compliment the wisteria vines?”
The blue jay squawked again.
“Not purple,” I said. “That's the most eccentric color there is.” Many of the most interesting people I'd met over the years loved the color purple, and it would look good on the home's wood siding, but purple was the most witchy color of all. I might as well write Witch House on the mailbox.
“Yellow?”
The blue jay stretched out his wings and took to the air.
“I'll take that as a yes,” I said. Sure. Everybody loves a yellow house.
My daughter darkened the open doorway. “What are you doing out there on the sidewalk?”
“Talking to a bird and thinking about painting the house.”
“No, you're not. You're trying to lift this whole house, aren't you?”
“What?”
“Don't be a show-off,” she said grouchily. “Don't you dare levitate this whole house, or I'll scream. Plus you'll break all the pipes and stuff.”
“Oh, shush!” I ran up the stairs toward the door. Something dark yet winking with bright light zipped across my path. There was a rat-a-tat sound, not unlike a woodpecker banging on a metal shed roof.
The moving object caught me by the toes. I tripped and fell into Zoey's arms. We both tumbled into the house and landed in a tangle of limbs, flying red hair, and mild cursing.
“You've gone off the deep end,” Zoey howled, wriggling under me. “I'll be more discreet from now on, but there's no need to tackle me. We're not a tackling family.”
“It was an accident,” I groaned. “Something tripped me. It scampered across the porch and caught my toe.”
“Like a stray cat?”
“Maybe.”
We got ourselves untangled. Nothing was damaged except my pride.
Zoey looked both ways cautiously before she stepped out onto the porch. She leaned down and grabbed something.
She asked me, “Didn't you throw this out?”
My hand flew up to my mouth as I gasped. “I swear I threw that into the trash as soon as we got home this morning.”
“Then why's it on the porch?”
In her hands was the evil toaster.
It gleamed maliciously.
Chapter 20
Zoey and I sat in the dining room, staring at the toaster.
The evil appliance sat in the middle of the table, trying to look nonchalant with its extra-long cord wrapped casually around itself.
Zoey asked, “Did you actually see the toaster dart across the porch and trip you?”
“Not exactly. But I did see something dark shoot across, plus some flashes of light. And I might have heard the pitter patter of little feet.”
She picked up the toaster with a grunt. “How can a toaster go pitter patter? It doesn't have feet.” She turned the rectangular appliance over. “Or does it? There seem to be some retractable parts here in the base. Plus the thing weighs a ton. Is it made of iron?”
“In the olden days, before Wal-Mart, appliances were a lot heavier. And they were built to last.”
She gingerly poked at the interlocking parts of the toaster's base. “Is this a removable crumb tray, or are these feet?” She got a piece free and pulled it out. Unfolded, the metal-and-spring part did resemble a foot.
“That's disturbing,” I said.
She released her hold, and the foot snapped back into place, tucking to be flush with the base. She turned the appliance upright, again grunting at the weight, and poked at a round glassy bul
b on the side. “And what's this?”
“An eyeball,” I said.
She flinched, pulling her hands back and holding them close to her neck. “Creepy. It does look like an eyeball.”
“Zoey, we are the proud owners of the world's only walking Cyclops toaster. I name him... Talkie Toaster.”
“But he doesn't talk.”
“No, but he reminds me of the toaster on Red Dwarf. Remember, Dave Lister bought him at a second-hand junk shop on planet-leave, along with a cat that he stowed away.”
Zoey nodded. “And the toaster is allegedly smarter than the ship's computer but always tries to steer the conversation toward toast.” She smiled and shook her head. “I was raised on way too much PBS.”
“What should we do with it? Smash it to three thousand separate pieces with a fourteen-pound hammer?”
Zoey prodded the glass eyeball. “I don't know if we have a hammer, let alone a fourteen-pound hammer.”
I nodded at her cell phone. “Want to try calling Aunt Zinnia again?”
She sighed. “It keeps going straight to voicemail. I think she's mad at us for leaving her house the way we did.”
“Maybe this is a test,” I said. “Didn't she say something about levels?”
“The toaster is a test?” Zoey's hazel eyes brightened. She was good at tests. “Let's put it somewhere safe while I do some research. Auntie Z said there isn't any genuine magic information on the public internet, but you never know.”
“Put it somewhere safe,” I mused. “How about the freezer? The door sticks anyway, so even if Talkie Toaster sprouted legs, it would have a tough time busting its way out.”
“Good idea,” she said.
“Promise you'll be careful and not take it out to use,” I said. “This toaster may have already taken a life.”
She eyed the squat appliance warily. “Did the ghost of Winona Vander Zalm tell you that?”
I bit my lip and debated how much to tell my daughter. I didn't want to worry her unnecessarily, but now that she was sixteen—old enough to drive with a learner's permit—she was old enough for adult-level worries.
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