wisteria witches 06 - wolves of wisteria

by Angela Pepper

  Zinnia turned to leave the break room. She whirled quickly and bumped into someone who'd snuck up behind her. A tall, solid man. Jesse Berman.

  She exclaimed breathlessly, “Jesse!”

  “Looks like I picked the wrong day to sleep in,” he said.

  His masculine voice was almost magical. It changed the shape of the emotions roiling within Zinnia, softening all her feelings, smoothing down all her edges. She had never been more glad to see him, and she was always glad to see him.

  Jesse Berman stood six feet tall and bore the commanding presence of someone even taller. Unlike Gavin Gorman, with his fake tans and bleached teeth, Jesse didn't have to work at his good looks. He had the facial bone structure of an action movie actor—rugged and strong, but not like a caveman. Jesse's looks were refined, almost beautiful. His eyes were a transfixing shade of light blue, and their brightness gave him a boyish look. He was thirty-six, and his dark hair showed no signs of turning gray. He wore his dark brown hair cropped short, but not too short. There was a natural curl that made the longer hair on top swirl in an interesting new direction every day. Zinnia had spent a lot of blissful moments during her first months at the office daydreaming about running her fingers through Jesse's thick, wavy hair. He was a dozen years younger than her, and being in the same room with him made her feel young. She might have quit her job ages ago if not for the added benefit of working so close to Jesse.

  He looked into her eyes and asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Me?” She found the question absurd. “Annette is the one who's dead.”

  “I saw.” He pointed his transfixing blue eyes at the floor and put his hands in his pockets. “You poor thing. I know you were fond of her. We all were.”

  Zinnia studied his face. His usually clean-shaven jaw had a smattering of stubble today. She pointed at his chin, resisting a girlish urge to touch it and feel the sharp hairs under her fingers.

  “You didn't shave this morning,” she said. “That's not like you.”

  He shrugged. “Like I said, I slept in. I stayed up too late watching the end of a TV series, and then this morning, my arm must have turned off the alarm clock without waking me up.” He rubbed his dark stubble and grinned. “I haven't stayed up that late since college days. If my dad were still alive, he'd whoop my butt for being such a slob.”

  “Oh, Jesse.” She rolled her eyes. “You're the opposite of a slob.”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “Compliments will get you everywhere.”

  Zinnia sighed inwardly. She could flirt with Jesse all day. It was the best part of her job.

  They smiled at each other until the grating sound of Karl being irate over the phone drifted into the break room. Jesse's handsome face took on a grim expression, his smile lines turning to frown lines. “Do you have any idea what happened to Annette? Was it a burglary gone wrong?”

  She almost laughed at the absurdity of his question. “It couldn't have been a burglary. We don't have anything to steal. The computers in here are so old, you'd have to pay someone to take them away.”

  “True.” Jesse crossed over to the sink and poured two glasses of water from the filtered tap. He handed her one. “But how are you doing? You don't seem very shaken up. You must be in shock.”

  “I think we're all in shock.” She took a small sip of water and nearly choked. With all the upheaval, she'd forgotten how to swallow. Stress did funny things to the body.

  Jesse opened his mouth to speak but stopped, turning his head to listen as the main office door opened and closed with a slam. Two seconds later, Margaret Mills stomped her way into the break room, breathing heavily. She'd come in so quickly, she must not have noticed the dead coworker on her way through the office. Margaret was what some people would call a Force of Nature. She could have tunnel vision at times, the way a cyclone has tunnel vision.

  Margaret dropped her purse on the room's table and sighed wearily. “I am so exhausted. You're all going to have to excuse my mistakes today. I feel like the walking dead.”

  Jesse said, “Margaret, there's—”

  She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “I know, I know. We all have our problems. We shouldn't drag issues from our personal lives into work. Goodness knows that's the main reason I come here every day, to get away from...” She waved one arm as shorthand for all the things they heard about regularly.

  Jesse glanced over at Zinnia, quirked an eyebrow, and handed the other glass of water to Margaret. The woman would find out about Annette soon enough, and it was good to stay hydrated.

  The tardy coworker drank the water with loud, unselfconscious gulps, blissfully unaware of the grave situation in the next room.

  Margaret Mills was short and solid, with rounded shoulders and a forward-leaning posture that made her appear to be charging ahead, rhinoceros-like, at all times. She had once had lustrous light brown hair, but now it was gray—entirely gray, even though she was only forty-two. The hair made her look much older than she was, but she liked the degree of anonymity it gave her. Every woman of a certain age knows about becoming invisible as the years progress. Margaret used her gray hair to her advantage. For example, she could browse in any store without being bothered by salespeople. Margaret was defiantly proud of her ability to blend in anywhere. Her gray hair was naturally curly, and she styled it one of two ways: frizzy or extra-frizzy. Today, it was relatively smooth. However, as she gulped her glass of water, her gray curls seemed to frizz up from the extra hydration.

  Margaret set the empty glass on the counter and picked up right where she'd left off. “Who knew having four kids would be like working in a circus? I tell you, it's non-stop, with the monkey business and the jibber-jabber. They had a goldfish go missing this morning—allegedly—so they missed the school bus, and I had to load them all in with me for an extra-fun drive. That's when I found out what really happened to the goldfish, and trust me, you do not want to know the sordid details.”

  “Probably not,” Zinnia agreed.

  Jesse gave Zinnia's shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Mind if I leave you two lovely ladies while I go check on the rest of the gang?”

  “Go ahead,” Zinnia said. “I'll handle the news. Good luck out there.”

  Jesse eyed the door with trepidation. “The least I can do is give Karl someone else to order around so he can enjoy his last moments on earth before he gets that overdue aneurysm.” He grinned.

  Zinnia gave him a head shake.

  He stifled his grin. “Too soon? Too dark?”

  “Both,” she said.

  He took a deep breath, puffing up his handsome chest, and left the break room.

  Margaret gave Zinnia a raised eyebrow. “Flirty, flirty,” she said. “You're like a giddy schoolgirl.”

  “I'm a grown woman,” Zinnia said. “I'm forty-eight now. Today's my birthday.”

  Margaret stepped back and looked Zinnia up and down. “Is that what's different today? There's something in the air. I noticed it as soon as I walked in, because I don't miss a beat.”

  Zinnia bit her tongue.

  Margaret said, “Look at you. Zinnia Riddle, another year closer to fifty. Fifty! Don't you dare drag me with you, woman!”

  Unpleasant though it was to have her proximity to fifty be highlighted, Zinnia had something much worse to discuss with Margaret. She put one hand on each of Margaret's shoulders and looked down into the other woman's eyes, which were as gray as her hair. “Margaret, Annette is dead. She's lying in a pool of blood next to her desk, with deep-looking wounds in her chest.”

  Margaret blinked and drew her head back, increasing her number of chins. Then she blinked again, thrust her chin out, and straightened up until she was only a few inches shorter than Zinnia.

  In a serious tone, she said, “That does explain why I saw her ghost this morning when I was in the shower.”

  Zinnia repeated back, “You saw her ghost when you were in the shower,”

  Margaret nodded, making the single frizzy curl that adorne
d the center of her forehead like a horn bounce up and down. “She was wearing the same emerald-green dress she was wearing yesterday. I remember because she paired it with that cute pink cardigan I've always admired. The one with the pearl buttons.”

  “The pink cardigan is on the back of her chair,” Zinnia said. “She didn't go home last night. She never left the office.”

  Margaret took in the news and frowned. “Someone came here, into our office, and killed Annette. How could that happen?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don't we have protective wards set up on the building, or at least around our little office?”

  “You know those wards don't do much on public spaces.”

  Margaret shook her head. “We're a couple of lousy, good-for-nothing witches. And now one of our coworkers has paid the price.”

  “We can't protect every non-magical person in the whole town.”

  Margaret inhaled sharply and reached for her purse. “I have to check on my kids. If anything were to happen to my little angels, I would die, Zinnia. I would just die.”

  “I know,” Zinnia said softly.

  Margaret pulled her phone out and paused. “Who would want to hurt Annette? It doesn't make any sense. She was just a regular person. Do you think there's a crazed killer on the loose?” Her gray eyes widened. “A serial killer?” Her hair seemed to frizz up at the suggestion.

  “We must not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “But Annette's not the kind of woman who has enemies.” Margaret's voice had gotten loud, so she lowered it again. “She didn't have any powers, did she? Not a full-blown witch, of course, but maybe some minor mage thing?”

  “Not that I know of, but you know how paranoid some—” Zinnia cut herself off because someone was entering the break room.

  Dawna walked in, looking shaky. She plopped into a chair across from Margaret. “Are you two talking about who might have killed Annette? Do you have any ideas?”

  Zinnia and Margaret exchanged a look.

  “No ideas,” the two said in unison.

  Dawna arched her back, sticking out her chest. She was apparently getting over the shock, and her usual sass was returning. “Well, I know who did it.”

  “Oh?” Zinnia and Margaret grabbed chairs and joined Dawna at the break-room table.

  Chapter 4

  Zinnia and Margaret sat quietly across from their coworker, Dawna. What had she meant about knowing who killed Annette?

  Dawna Jones was a watchful woman who kept quiet until it suited her to speak up. She had dark skin, and dark natural hair that she wore pushed back from her face, often with a headband, accenting her orange eyes. She was lithe and moved quietly, like a cat. Dawna had cats, between two and five of them—nobody was quite sure how many. She could be strangely private about her private life. A person looking for clues into Dawna's internal life might notice her desk was decorated with a healthy jade plant, a framed four-leaf clover, and a white elephant—all symbols of good luck from various cultures. She was one of the younger employees in the office. At thirty, she was a decade younger than her on and off again lover, Gavin.

  Dawna had always gotten along well with Annette, but they did disagree about one thing. Gavin Gorman. Dawna felt that Gavin was suitable dating material about fifty percent of the time, which explained their frequent breakups. Conversely, Annette found him suitable for Dawna exactly zero percent of the time. Whenever the couple reconciled after a breakup, Annette would roll her eyes and say to Dawna, “I don't know what you see in that man.” Dawna always pointed out that at least she had a man, unlike Annette. The only man at City Hall that Annette did approve of was Jesse Berman, but he wasn't Dawna's type at all.

  Dawna tapped her long orange nails on the table and savored the attention of the two women present.

  “You were saying something,” Zinnia prodded.

  Margaret chimed in. “About some enemy that Annette had?”

  Dawna nodded sagely, relishing her knowledge. “I have a pretty good idea who killed her,” she said.

  “Are you going to tell us?” Zinnia asked.

  “Maybe you should wait until the police get here,” Margaret said.

  Dawna's forehead wrinkled. “The police? No way. They'll think I'm crazy. Unless... can you two nice, respectable ladies back me up?”

  Zinnia and Margaret muttered “sure” and exchanged a look. What were they agreeing to?

  Dawna drew herself up with a big breath. “My theory is that the person who went all scary-movie-hack-job on Annette must have been someone who didn't appreciate having all of their secrets gettin' spelled out in that new book she was writing.”

  In unison, Zinnia and Margaret took in a breath and asked, “What book?”

  “Don't you know?” Dawna's voice pitched higher and higher. “That book she was writing!” When the other two didn't respond, she said, “Oh, don't tell me you didn't know all about Annette and her side hustle. Aren't you two usually up in everyone's business?”

  Margaret made a scoffing sound.

  Just then, their three male coworkers came into the break room. Karl's face was red and splotchy, even though he'd unbuttoned more shirt buttons and abandoned his tie somewhere. Gavin went to the sink and started washing his hands vigorously. Jesse held back, leaning against the wall next to the door.

  “Oh, good,” Dawna said, twirling her long orange fingernails in the air. “Staff meeting. This saves me from having to repeat myself to everyone one at a time.”

  Margaret explained to the others, “Annette was writing a book.” She turned to Dawna and asked, “Is that what her secret project was? The one she was staying after hours to work on.”

  Dawna nodded. “You got it, girl.”

  Margaret turned to the men and explained, as though they hadn't been standing right there, “Annette's secret project was a book. That's why she was staying late all those nights.”

  “Shush,” Dawna said waving a hand between Margaret and the men. “Let me tell it.” She rotated her chair so she was facing the male coworkers. “You fellows won't know nothin' about this, but Annette asked me to help her with some computer stuff one night. I wanted to get home to feed my cats, but the old lady needed help with the computer, and you know me, I gotta be helpful because I'm lucky at computers, right? So, we got to talking. Did you ever hear of an author called AJ Scholem?” Everyone exchanged puzzled looks. “Me, neither,” Dawna said. “But that's the name that Annette's been using for her fantasy books.”

  Gavin scoffed. “Fantasy? You mean romance?”

  Karl's eyes bulged out as he stammered, “Wha-wha-what? Romance? What? Annette? What?”

  Jesse patted Karl on the shoulder. “Take it easy, Karl. Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Let the lady speak.”

  Dawna rolled her eyes. “Not that kind of fantasy. You men have a one-track mind. I meant fantasy. You know. Like The Lords of the Rings and stuff.”

  “Lord of the Rings,” Gavin corrected.

  “Whatever.” Dawna squared her shoulders with pride. “Annette is a real, genuine author, and she told me all about it. She trusted me.”

  Jesse pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, then read aloud, “AJ Scholem is the pen name for a mid-list author who lives in the rainy part of the West Coast, in harmony with nature.” He looked up, eyebrows tented. “That's all it says. No picture. It doesn't even say if AJ is male or female. I guess it could be Annette.”

  “It's her, dummy,” Dawna said with a sassy head bob.

  Jesse stifled a grin. He was no dummy, but he didn't have Karl's fragile ego, so he let it go.

  “I was sworn to secrecy by Annette,” Dawna said. None of them spoke or moved. Dawna continued. “But now that she's dead, everything's going to come out. That woman had secrets, just like the rest of us, except she wrote hers in a book. And somebody didn't like that, so they killed her.”

  Margaret scowled. “You said you knew who killed her.”

  Dawna shrugged. “I don'
t know their name,” she said in a high voice. “Do I look like the FBI?”

  Karl grunted. “But why would someone kill Annette for writing a book? This is ridiculous.”

  Jesse said, “When the police get here, let's not waste their time with this book stuff.”

  Gavin, who was still washing his hands, said, “I've got your back, Dawna, but are you sure about any of this?”

  “Ridiculous,” Karl said again, snorting.

  Dawna raised her hand and turned her palm toward Karl. “Haters gonna hate,” she said. Addressing the others, she continued. “You see, Annette already had this one series that was doing okay. Last fall, she started writing this new spin-off book. That's like a book that's part of a series but not really, depending on how you look at it. She told me it was gonna be her breakout hit, the big one that takes her from being a nobody to being a household name. You know, like the Harry Potter lady.” She paused to catch her breath before letting out a light, nervous chuckle. “Here's the weird part. All of the people in her book, well, they're us.” She looked around the room with her orange, catlike eyes wide, pausing on each person. “We're all in the book!”

  A moment of silence passed.

  “Oh,” Jesse said in his usual irreverent tone. “Well, that explains everything.” He balled his hands into fists and held them to his chin in mock fear. “Someone must have killed Annette because her book was going to reveal all their secrets.”

  Karl snapped his fingers. “It's like a poison pen mystery.”

  Gavin asked, “What? A poisoned pen?” He paused his vigorous hand washing.

  Karl made a HARUMPH before explaining, “That's when a group of people, usually in a small town, like a quaint English village, get anonymous letters full of all sorts of nasty lies and accusations. This all leads to somebody getting murdered, and then some plucky or brilliant detective has to figure out who the killer is.” He tried to straighten his tie, even though he wasn't wearing one. “And usually there are cakes. Not my sort of thing, but I've spent some time in bookstores over the years.”