I was still standing, but Grampa Don seemed to be in no hurry to leave. We were having this talk, and we were having it now.
I pushed over my daughter's feet and took a seat at the end of the sofa.
“How's Chet blinded?” I asked. “Wait. Are you also a... you-know-what?”
His sharp features didn't budge. “These abilities run in families.”
I took that as a yes. “Are you a bird? Can you fly?”
“That's not what I do, and that's all I can say until we know each other better.”
“Figures,” I said. “Are you also an X-Files investigator?”
The corner of Don's mouth twitched up. “They weren't wrong about your sense of humor. You certainly do have a novel way of looking at things. I suppose having your powers lay dormant for so many years has altered you.”
I clenched my jaw. He knew about my late-blooming powers? How? Even Chet didn't seem to know that.
“You don't know what you're talking about,” I bluffed coolly. “Let's get to why you're sitting in my dark living room like some cheesy James Bond villain. Do you have a message for me? A mission? A potion request?”
“I want you to help Chet with something,” he said. “Help him, but don't give him what he wants. He wants to hang on when he should let go.”
“How am I supposed to help? I'm a librarian, not a detective. And yes, I already checked the library for reference materials on all things supernatural. I'm sure it comes as no surprise to you that the Wisteria Public Library, funded by municipal taxes, doesn't carry a huge selection of leather-bound books of spells and prophecies.”
“Zara, you were summoned here for a reason.”
“Summoned?” My impatience bubbled up. I wanted to shake Don Moore until the truth came out. The recliner underneath the man began to shift and tremble.
The ashen-haired man shot me an amused eyebrow lift. “That's all you've got?”
The recliner began to rock, reclining back creakily and then jerking back upright again. It was my power, but I couldn't control it. What had started wouldn't stop, because deep down, I wanted the chair to shake. I wanted it to snap together like the jaws of a crocodile and squeeze the truth out of Don.
Don reached into his pocket for something. At the same time, he barked, “Enough!”
The recliner obeyed and stopped its wild-bronco bucking. Next to me on the couch, Zoey whimpered and rolled over but didn't wake.
“How did you do that?” I asked Don.
“We all have our own defenses.” He leaned forward and groaned as he pulled himself out of the comfortable chair. He was making noise, but his movements were steady, and he wasn't breathing hard. His old-man noises were nothing more than an act, a ruse to make people underestimate the ash-haired senior.
“It's past my bedtime,” he said with a yawn.
“Don't go yet. Would you like a cup of coffee? More dessert? You haven't told me how I'm supposed to help Chet.”
“You're a woman,” he said. “You already know what he needs.”
I felt my cheeks flush. Was he implying what I thought he was?
“Listen to the souls,” he said. “Catch them and help them move on, out of this realm. It's for the best. The ones that linger become malignant.”
“Don, I've tried talking to the spirit of Winona Vander Zalm. I even asked if she was murdered, and if so, by whom, but she's terrible at communicating. Every time I try to get information, I wind up at the store buying spices and gourmet things I can't pronounce.”
“What would a homicide detective do?”
Without hesitation, I answered, “Follow the money. Find out who benefits from her death and check their alibis.”
Don headed toward the front door. “Exactly,” he said without looking back. “Her main asset was this home, which was sold to you.”
“But I paid for it,” I said. My blood ran cold. I had gotten a really good deal on the home. I'd blamed the real estate agent's incompetence for the great selling price, but what if Dorothy Tibbits wasn't a lousy saleswoman? What if I'd used magic without realization or control, like when I'd made the recliner buck like a wild horse?
As my mind raced with paranoid thoughts, I felt the icy embrace of the home's former owner wrap around my heart.
“You need to get involved in this investigation,” Don said. “Tell my son you can help. Don't take no for an answer. He needs you, Zara. More than you'll ever know.”
“He doesn't want my help.”
“Neither do most people who need help.”
I sighed. As a librarian, I knew exactly how right he was. Some people, by the time they sought help, were already so angry about needing it they took it out on the person trying to help them. An endless supply of patience was not wasted on librarians.
I thought about what little I knew about Winona, other than her healing and entertaining abilities.
“She had no kids,” I said. “Did she have a will? Who inherited her estate?”
Don reached for the door handle and smiled. “Winona Vander Zalm specified in her will that everything would go to the nice family next door. The Moore family.”
He yanked open the door and stepped out into the early-morning stillness. The motion-sensitive porch light came on with a blast of yellow light and immediately shattered with a pop and a hiss. Don was a shadow.
“One more thing,” the shadow said. “Don't tell Chet about this conversation.”
“But—”
“There's a chance even I won't remember we talked,” he said. “My memory isn't what it used to be.” He looked down and shook his head. “But if I'd wanted my son to know, I would have joined your conversation in the dining room rather than letting all that jibber-jabber put me to sleep.”
I snorted. Me, jibber-jabber? Okay, maybe a little.
“Zara, you're not what anyone expected, but you're exactly what we need.”
The tone of his voice was as dark as his shadowed face. I nodded mutely.
And then he was gone.
Chapter 30
Grampa Don “Hide in the Dark Like a Cheesy James Bond Villain” Moore didn't say anything about not sharing our conversation with my daughter.
“Zoey,” I whispered. “There's breaking news. Beep-beep-boop-boop. Breaking news. Wake up.”
She lifted her head just enough to free her pillow and use it to cover her head. My daughter was lying next to me, hogging the center of my bed and squeezing me toward the edge, like the notorious bed-hog she was. She was on top of my covers and still wearing last night's clothes. She looked quite comfortable under the quilt that normally covered the sofa.
The night before, I'd left her asleep in the living room because, unlike Chet, I didn't have the shifter muscles to carry her up. She must have woken and decided my bed was the place to be, which actually was convenient for me.
I craned my neck and checked the time. Noon, right on the dot. I'd gotten maybe five hours of sleep, which would have been a luxury back when I was working full time, raising a preteen, and completing my Master's degree in library s.
“Beep-beep-boop-boop,” I repeated. “Don't you want to hear the breaking news?”
From under the pillow, Zoey moaned, “You and Corvin's dad were looking friendly last night.”
“He has a name,” I said. “Are you calling him Corvin's dad because it's the least sexy way to describe him and you're secretly trying to sabotage any romance potential? Don't answer that. I don't want to know.”
“Less paranoia, more news,” she said sleepily.
I yanked the pillow away so I could watch her reactions.
I breathlessly told her about Grampa Don hiding in the living room, listening in on my conversation with Chet, and then giving his ominous warnings about keeping my family safe. Zoey frowned and nodded for me to keep talking. I told her about his request for me to help Chet with the homicide investigation, as well as the big kicker. The money for the house sale had gone to the Moores.
She'd been yawning, and the news of the inheritance made her stop midyawn. “What? She gave everything to her neighbors?”
“I know, right? Kinda makes you wonder about motives and stuff.”
She pulled a strand of red hair from the corner of her mouth. “Motives? You think someone broke in over here and threw the lady's toaster into the tub so they could get their inheritance?” She held up one hand. “Don't even say it.”
But I had to say it. “How well do you know Corvin?”
She shook her head. “He's barely ten. He's no evil mastermind.”
“When you were ten, you already had a thriving business. You had to turn away work.”
“Mom, I watered plants for a few bucks. It wasn't exactly a thriving business.”
“You turned a profit.”
She rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. “My mother the ghost whisperer is crazy,” she muttered.
“We still don't know how Corvin got in here the day he broke our housewarming presents in the den.”
“He probably walked right in the back door, like a regular person.”
“Or he flew down the chimney in bird form.”
She didn't have an answer for that.
“It explains why he can see Winona's ghost,” I said. “She stayed behind to haunt him.”
“By throwing dinner parties and making Corvin miniature hot dogs? She's a real terror, all right.”
My daughter did have a good point. I ruminated for a minute, staring up at the ceiling as well.
“Zoey, I can't shake this guilty feeling I have some connection to her death. The woman was also a witch, and she loved her house, and now I'm living in it. If I hadn't seen this house the day I came for my interview, I don't know if I could have made the leap.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The person with the most motivation to kill Winona Vander Zalm is me.”
“Mom, don't be so self-centered,” she said. “The world doesn't revolve around you, remember? If Dorothy hadn't sold the house to you, she would have sold it to someone else. Probably not a witch. If you think about it, maybe Winona wanted you to have this place.”
“Maybe.”
She pulled herself upright and stretched while looking around the room. “Everyone at the party last night had a different idea about how old Ms. Vander Zalm was. Frank said he'd known her for thirty years and she hadn't aged more than ten during that time. And nobody could say for certain what war she served as a nurse in.”
“We should check the newspaper obituary.”
“Already did. They didn't list her date of birth.”
I yawned. “Maybe I'll go back to sleep and visit her in my dreams. Then she can answer all my questions.”
Zoey rolled out of the bed and whipped away all my warm bed covers. “Up and at 'em!”
“Five more minutes,” I pleaded, trying to grab the blankets back.
“Nope,” she said. “Get up and think up some excuse to go next door. If Grampa Don wants you to help Chet, and our ghost friend wants her death avenged, and you like making kissy faces at your new boyfriend, then it's like killing three birds with one stone.” She grabbed my last bit of comfort—my pillow—and pulled it out of reach. “Now march yourself into the bathroom, hose off some of last night's makeup, and go next door to borrow a cup of avocado juice, which is totally a real thing and not nonsense I just made up.” She pointed at the door to the bathroom. “Go!”
“Avocado juice?” Chet stood in the doorway of his blue house, looking perplexed.
“Zoey says it's a real thing,” I said. “But if you're not up on the coolest, hippest juice blends, I guess any ol' juice will do. Pineapple. Orange. Pineapple-orange medley. Any type of medley.”
Chet stepped back and waved me inside. “We do have juice.”
“Perfect.”
“It's frozen, so I'll have to mix it with water. And it might actually be pink lemonade.”
“Made from pink lemons?”
He glanced back over his shoulder as we walked toward his kitchen. “Are you trying to trick me with logic?”
“Not at all,” I said. “In fact, I'm here to help you. The avocado juice was just an excuse to get inside your house.”
“No kidding.” He opened the freezer compartment of a deluxe stainless steel fridge and surveyed the contents. He had several flavors of frozen juice.
“That one looks good.” I used my magic to lift a container of orange concentrate. “You can't go wrong with orange.”
He skewered the container mid-air with one quick claw.
“You're fast with those things,” I said.
He glanced over at the kitchen window, his expression clouding over. “I should be more careful. My father warned me not to get reckless showing off, but I can't seem to help myself.”
My cheeks warmed. When he'd left my house earlier that morning, he'd seemed closed off. Now, though, he was warm again. And darn it if a man alternating between hot and cold wasn't like catnip to me.
They say people with no boundaries enjoy flinging themselves at people with rigid boundaries. As soon as my powers got strong enough for me to lift my own body weight, perhaps I would literally fling myself at him. Oh, how I longed to be caught in those strong, muscular arms of his—provided he kept his claws retracted.
Chet used a handheld blender to whip the juice so it was icy cold with suspended crystals. He handed me a glass, caught my eye, and asked, “What devious things are you thinking about right now?”
“Nothing devious,” I said, glancing around his kitchen. “Nice renovation. Sort of a farmhouse chic thing. Very sexy. And your layout is a mirror image of my house.”
He rinsed the blender under an enormous faucet. “You can't go wrong with a huge, concrete sink,” he said.
“No kidding. You could dismantle a body in there.”
His nostrils widened and his upper lip twitched. “What are you implying?”
I tipped back my glass of orange juice and chugged it noisily.
When I was done, I said brightly, “Great juice. You can taste that Florida sunshine.” I set the glass on his polished-concrete countertop and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “So, what's on the agenda for today? I've got some time on my hands, so I'm here to help with your investigation.”
His upper lip twitched wolfishly. “How can you help? Has the spirit been giving you new information?”
“Yes!” I held my finger in the air triumphantly. “Winona Vander Zalm wants me to make sure the money from the sale of the house got to her heirs without any complications. Her heirs, who happen to be…” I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples with two fingers. “The Moo family? Winona, do you mean cows? For someone who was such a cow lover, you sure know a lot of recipes for veal.”
“Zara, what are you doing?”
I shushed Chet and continued. “What's that, Winona? M-O-O-R-E. That's funny. Do you mean the neighbors in the blue house? The Moore family?”
Chet made a hmm noise.
I opened my eyes and gave him a curious look. “Is it true? Did Ms. Vander Zalm leave your family her entire fortune?”
His green eyes darkened as they narrowed. “She knew about my work,” he said. His tone was low and cold, guarded.
“I don't understand. Did she give you money to investigate her murder? If she was a witch who could see the future, why didn't she just avoid getting murdered?”
“She wasn't exactly a witch,” Chet said, his face and body as tense as his voice.
“Then what was she?” My senses buzzed. Something was crawling up behind me, crawling up the backs of my legs like a hundred tiny black scorpions. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to see an army of creepie crawlies, but there was nothing.
“She was careless,” he said. “But that's for me to worry about. Not you. I have everything under control.”
The buzzing of my senses increased. I checked over my shoulder again for the army of tiny black scorpions. Still nothing. But then I sme
lled mint—freshly crushed mint, like you might muddle in a tumbler for a mojito. A feeling like a cool silk scarf slipped over me. Winona Vander Zalm was here. I relaxed and let her spirit take over my body.
“No, you don't have everything under control,” Winona snapped, using my voice. “Chet, you boys need a woman around to calm down the masculine energy.”
He blinked and took a step back. “Ms. Vander Zalm?”
“That's why I'm willing you my fortune. I shouldn't care what happens after I'm dead, but I'd rather not see my life's savings go to the government after I worked so hard to keep it from them all these years. Take the cash and go on a vacation. Start an education fund for Corvin. That little boy needs all the help he can get. Such a strange child.” A minty-cool chill ran through me. This speech was the most she'd said so far, and she showed no sign of letting up. “Why not start a scholarship fund for young witches and all the other beasties? Use my money for something good, Chet. And then use your life for something good as well. Don't pine away over the past. Move on, like Don would. And don't argue, my dear. I have spoken.”
The minty-cool chill in my body turned to fizzy bubbles and then dissipated. I trembled. She was gone, her recorded words replayed.
I rubbed my neck. “That was her, Chet. She's gone now. Why didn't you ask her who killed her?”
“She couldn't have told us,” he said glumly. “Spirits aren't much more than echoes. You, of all people, should know that.”
“Right,” I said, nodding. “Ghosts are like the holograms in the old Star Wars. Yes, I know all about that. She must have said all those things to you some other time, right? Do you remember when? Maybe it's significant.”
He looked up pensively. “I remember it was right here in this kitchen, about a year ago. It was the day she met with her lawyer to change her will. I begged her not to make me her beneficiary, but she didn't listen.”
“Does your secret employer know about this? I'm no lawyer, but it sounds like a wee bit of a conflict of interest, investigating a murder when you're the prime suspect.”
He gave me a wounded look, his lean cheeks showing deep shadows. “You can't actually think I'm a suspect.”
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