“I'd never suspect you, of course.” I swallowed. “Or your family.”
“Good.”
“But what about your boss at the FBI? The guy with the shiny head. What's his name again? Skinner?”
He shook his head. “I don't work for the imaginary FBI X-Files.”
I leaned across the smooth polished concrete and rested my chin on my hands. “So, what did you do with the cash? Did you dump all of the old lady's house money into your renovation?” I glanced around, whistling. “These finishings don't look cheap.”
He managed to look both offended and flattered at the same time. “I've renovated this house over several years, mostly using my own two hands.”
“What about your father? Does Grampa Don like getting his hands dirty? Would you say he's a hands-on guy? Always getting into your business?”
He straightened up and squared his shoulders. “The men of the Moore family stick together.” He puffed out his chest. “And as for the money from the estate, I've put it in a charitable fund to help young people. Not that there was very much money left on the table after the smoke cleared.”
“She had debts?”
“Ms. Vander Zalm's love of entertaining would have bankrupted her eventually. She'd taken out several loans against the house over the years.”
“Oh.” So much for cash as a motive.
“If I'd realized the full extent of her debt, I wouldn't have hired Dorothy Tibbits to sell the place. She's a terrible real estate agent.”
“She really is the worst. Why'd you pick her?”
He swished his lips from side to side. “Honestly, I don't know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I guess I'm just a sucker for a pretty face.” He gave me an impish grin. “And that blue pinafore.” He made a flirty growl.
“Her face is pretty, all right. Pretty like Saran Wrap stretched over leftover meatloaf.” I looked down at my hands. “Sorry. That was unkind. It's not like me to judge a book by its cover.”
“You sounded a lot like Winona just now. The ghost's rubbing off on you more each day. You'd better get rid of her before your whole personality changes.”
“What?” I stared at him, open mouthed. Was he kidding, or did he know more about being Spirit Charmed than I did?
“Well, you can't be too upset,” he said while tidying up some cereal bowls. “Thanks to Dorothy being so terrible, I took your ridiculous low-ball offer on the Red Witch House. My loss is your gain. You practically stole the place.”
I jerked my head up and took a more assertive posture. “Excuse me? Just because I know how to drive a bargain doesn't mean I stole the place. I bought it fair and square on the open market. And clearly my offer was better than all the others.”
“There were no other offers,” he said. “Dorothy thought I should wait it out. She said spring was too hectic and there were too many other houses on the market. She suggested pulling it and relisting in November. I think she was either being lazy or distracted by trying to sell her own property.”
“At least it all worked out and you got a great neighbor.”
He poured himself a glass of orange juice and stared at it. “Honestly, just between the two of us, Ms. Vander Zalm had gotten a little kooky toward the end. It wasn't just eating Pop-Tarts in the bathtub. She got confused about other things. She kept saying she was done, ready to move on.”
“Do you think she might have killed herself?”
Chet winced. “It's a possibility. When she was found, the doors and windows were all locked from the inside. I had to break down the back door to check on her.”
“You found her? I'm so sorry.”
His eyes glistened. He turned away and cleared his throat. “We all have to go sometime. And going to the next place is better than lingering for an eternity in the twilight hours.”
Lingering. Twilight hours.
I caught a whiff of another scent. It was similar to the minty-cool smell I associated with a spirit arriving but closer to the ozone freshness of the ocean shore. I sensed a presence, and this one was more powerful than Ms. Vander Zalm. I caught a wave of raw emotion—rage. Was it coming from Chet? Or someone else in the Moore household? Suddenly, I wanted to be back in my own house, where I had some hope of protection by Aunt Zinnia's friend's protective wards.
I gripped the edge of the concrete countertop and fought to keep control of my faculties.
Chet still had his back to me and hadn't noticed me struggling to stay present.
He said, “The investigation's at a standstill. My bosses are ready to close the case and rule it an accident.”
The presence filled the room with ozone and then rushed into me, filling my senses.
Chet was still talking, but I couldn't understand his words.
The world around me narrowed to a tiny pinhole of light. My mouth watered, my knees weakened, and I felt my body buckle.
As I lost consciousness, all was peace and tranquility, like undulating kelp at the bottom of the sea.
Chapter 31
“Zara, you fainted.” Chet was gently reviving me.
I fluttered my eyelids and closed them again, taking an extra moment to savor the contact. He was sitting cross-legged on his kitchen floor with my head cradled on his lap. His body was warm and soothing.
“You're okay,” he said, stroking my hair.
I was more than okay. Sure, the fainting had felt like a dump truck's load of sand being poured over me, but having my head in Chet's lap and his hands stroking my hair made it all worth it. I would pack up my things and move into a new haunted house a thousand times to repeat this moment.
As I returned to consciousness, a little voice in the back of my head started heckling. Really? You're going all melty-guts for this guy you barely know?
I tried to ignore the little voice, but it did have a point. I'd fallen pretty hard for Chet Moore, right from the first minute we met. Zoey had accused me of being a Turbo-flirter, and she wasn't wrong. But Chet wasn't like other handsome guys. It was as though we'd known each other intimately before now and were only meeting up again after a separation of nearly a year.
Nearly a year? The voice in my head let out a very witchy cackle. That seems awfully specific, Zara. Don't you find it strange that your connection with this guy was so instant? And isn't it curious how your new neighbor just happened to recognize you from a few minutes of internet fame that happened over fifteen years ago? It's the sort of thing that should make a person wonder.
The voice was right again. Now I did wonder.
I had to start paying more attention to coincidences that weren't coincidences after all, such as having a gnome of a man mistake me for my aunt.
Moving next door to a former Zara the Camgirl fan was highly unlikely. I'd been popular, but not that popular. But I couldn't be suspicious of Chet, because I was the one who'd moved in next to him. If anyone was the stalker in our equation, it was me. My move to Wisteria and my house purchase had been my own personal choices. Impulsive and foolhardy but still mine.
Really? The little voice wasn't shutting up.
Really, I replied. Buying the house had been my decision. How dare the voice question me. I'd been right there in my body when I signed the purchase offer. I remembered the moment clearly. I hadn't been in a daze, because even though the spirit of Winona Vander Zalm would have been floating around at the time, I hadn't yet become a witch, and Winona hadn't yet become acquainted with the inside of my head. So, unless there was someone else up inside my noggin—someone other than my pesky doubting voice—it must have been me.
I am the captain of my own destiny.
Unless...
Was there another spirit affecting my choices? Or a magic spell? The crush on Chet Moore was intense. The only other time I'd ever fallen in love at first sight was when I first laid eyes on Zoey, in the back of a taxi, swaddled in the driver's extra sweatshirt.
Remembering the night I gave birth sent me further away from Chet's kitchen and my body
. I was drifting back through time to that night, back to the words the driver said to me following the surprisingly quick delivery of my sweet baby girl. The man said...
“Stay with me,” Chet said. His voice was calm yet sharp with worry.
He was still cradling my head on his lap, and now he was shaking me by the shoulders.
The voice in the back of my head was quiet. No more from the peanut gallery? The memory of my baby swaddled in a sweatshirt floated away.
Gravity returned, and with a squeeze all over my body, I was birthed back into the present moment.
My throat burned. I tried to speak, but all that came out was a groan.
Chet shook me again. “Can you talk?” He pressed his cool hand against my forehead. I remembered another time—another time when he'd nursed me back to health. I'd had a fever. I'd been delirious, worried about my sisters. Chet had dipped me in an ice bath, and I'd screamed. It was just a fever, a flu that had been going around the office, but it had hit me hard. Once the fever broke, I was fine, but he'd been so worried.
“No ice,” I said, mumbling through my haze. “Don't put me in the ice bath.”
Chet's hands, which had been gently shaking me awake, stopped moving.
He asked, “What ice bath?” His voice was hoarse, almost a whisper. “Is it... is it you?”
I coughed and forced my eyes to open.
“Me? What?”
He was staring down at me with a helpless expression. “Zara, are you yourself again?”
“Coffee,” I croaked. “I won't be myself until I've had some coffee.”
After I'd revived, Chet offered me not just coffee but a full breakfast.
I'd made myself comfortable at his kitchen counter and did my best to make a latte disappear.
I kept blinking and rubbing my eyes. My vision was hazy, like I was underwater, seeing the world through a veil. Was I still asleep?
A handsome wolf-shifter man was making coffee and telling me we could have fresh fruit salad with our croissants. He hadn't shaved yet that morning and had an intriguing dark shadow along his jawline. He looked so scruffy and kissable, and I had the sense we'd just woken up together, even though we hadn't.
I had to be dreaming. I pinched my arm. Nothing changed. This—being made breakfast by Chet Moore—was just a thing that happened now in my new life.
Chet looked over his shoulder at me. “We'll be eating in a minute,” he said.
“Don't let me ruin your regular Saturday-morning routine,” I said.
“You're not ruining anything. You told me you wanted to help with the investigation, and that's what you're going to do. I've got a ton of notes you can help me look over. Maybe Winona will speak up through you again and give us a hint.”
I started to say I no longer sensed her presence near me but stopped myself. Thanks to my librarian training and my natural flair with research materials, I did have plenty to offer. Even without getting possessed, I could be a fresh set of eyes on the case.
“Where's Corvin?” I asked. “Does he sleep in on the weekend?”
“He's off swimming with Grampa Don.”
“Cool,” I said, nodding. “I've been meaning to check out the recreation center. I hear the pool's gorgeous.”
Chet smirked. “They're not at the rec center. The Moores prefer the great outdoors.”
“Of course you do.”
“You can take your coffee over to the breakfast nook. I'll bring the food in a minute.”
“You have a breakfast nook? I don't have a breakfast nook. No fair. I demand a full refund on my house.”
His smirk turned into a full grin. “You do have one, sort of. It's the potting shed at your place.”
“The place where we keep our extra spiders and spider webs?”
“That's the one. I extended out of the back of this house a few years back and turned mine into a solarium. We use it as a breakfast nook when the weather's not nice enough for eating in the back yard.”
“A breakfast nook,” I said with wonder.
“You can hire a contractor and catch up.”
“I'll have to try hard to keep up with the Moores. You boys are very skilled.”
He just smiled.
Chapter 32
“Mom, wake up. You told me to drag you out of bed on Monday morning no matter what, and it's Monday morning. Rise and shine!”
“I need a new alarm clock.” I reached out, found her face with my hand, and tweaked her nose. “This one is too chipper, and I can't find the snooze button.”
She swatted my hand away. “We need to get you an enormously heavy alarm clock that you can't levitate and toss across the room.”
“I can't help it,” I said. “The magic has a mind of its own. I don't mean to throw my alarm clock across the room, but as soon as it starts beeping, my witchy defensive powers kick in and eliminate the threat.” I sat up and looked across the room at the alarm clock, lying forlornly on its side. “Do you think I shot it with blue lightning balls?”
She picked up the alarm clock, returned it to my bedside table, and plugged it in. The red numbers flashed 12:00.
“It seems to have survived this morning's attack,” Zoey said.
I pointed my finger at the display. “Until tomorrow, alarm clock. Until tomorrow.”
Zoey sighed. “You need to get control over your powers. Auntie Z says you should do drills and exercises.”
“Boring.”
“Yes. But you have to learn the musical scales before you jump into improvised jazz.”
I rolled out of bed and went to my closet to stare at my clothes. “Improvised jazz?” Something clicked in my head. “Do you mean I can make my own spells? If I could do that, I'd cast a spell on my closet so it always picked the perfect thing for me to wear that day.”
Zoey snorted. “Just close your eyes and pick something at random. You know, like you usually do.”
I used my magic to levitate a pillow from my bed and smack the back of her head with it. She squealed as she grabbed the pillow and manually lobbed it back at me. I could have stopped the pillow, but I allowed it to smack me in the face. Sometimes you have to let your child win a round.
I returned to rummaging through my closet. I pulled out my black skirt with the pink poodle. It came with a crinoline to complete the vintage look. Not today, I thought. Save the poodle skirt for a special occasion.
I asked over my shoulder, “What else did Zinnia tell you? Did she teach you any spells?” Zoey had spent all of Sunday at my aunt's house, while I'd been busy with my own business.
After breakfast with Chet on Saturday morning, we'd pored over his paperwork and made phone calls to everyone who'd had contact with Winona Vander Zalm during the weeks before her demise. The busy lady had been in contact with what seemed like half the town of Wisteria. Nobody we talked to volunteered a murder confession or even so much as a clue. Chet hoped that Winona would take hold of me again upon seeing something in the files, but I remained possession free the rest of the weekend. Either she knew nothing, or my fainting spell had scared her away.
Our only lead was the alleged instrument of death—the toaster. I assured Chet it was imprisoned inside my freezer, but I could bring it over if he wanted to examine it for magic spells. He said he would ask some tech-savvy friend at work, Charlie, about examining the appliance, and he'd get back to me when he was ready to take it in. He still wouldn't break and tell me the name of his organization.
I hoped Zoey's weekend had been more fruitful than mine.
“No spells yet,” Zoey said glumly. “She's got me learning about the language of spells, which has its own grammar. You know how English is usually subject-verb-object? She smashes the alarm clock, for example.”
“I haven't smashed it yet.” I closed my eyes and grabbed two items at random from my closet. Both were pencil skirts.
“The gray skirt and the blue shirt,” Zoey said. “Anyway, the grammar is really fascinating.”
I took the
clothes my in-house fashion consultant suggested and nodded for Zoey to walk-and-talk me to the bathroom.
She followed, explaining in her excited voice. “In the Witch Tongue, that phrase would be more like this: Alarm clock be smashing by tired, angry mother.”
“That's not entirely untrue, but it seems a bit judgmental. Is the Witch Tongue supposed to be subjective?”
“It's certainly not objective,” she said. “And for good reason. People don't hex, curse, or even bless things they feel neutral about.”
“I guess the spell needs specific instructions, so there aren't any mistakes of interpretation. That's how you avoid the monkey-paw irony, like that old story about someone who wishes for money and then gets it, but only because someone they care about was killed and they got the inheritance.”
“Exactly,” Zoey said. “You're catching on almost as fast as I did. Magic has its own ideas, so you do have to give it your own specific subjectivity.”
“Sounds dangerous. If magic has its own ideas, casting a spell is like leaving a small child alone in a room with cans of paint.”
Zoey snorted. “I thought you wanted me to paint a mural on that wall.”
“My daughter, the genius finger painter.” I patted her on the head. “Are you sure magic has its own ideas, or was Zinnia trying to scare you?”
“How should I know?” She jumped up on the bathroom counter and bowed her head. “I might not even be a witch.”
I turned on the water for the shower and checked the temperature. “All this talk about magic gives me an idea,” I said. “Maybe someone was trying to help Ms. Vander Zalm, and they accidentally hurt her. Do you see how many electrical outlets are in this room?”
Zoey glanced around. There was only one electrical outlet, and it was in a very strange place. It wasn't next to the bathroom vanity but high on the wall, on the opposite side of the room from the claw-foot tub.
I used my magic to tug the end of the toilet paper roll and then stretched the roll in a floating line through the air, from the outlet to the top of the bathroom counter.
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