Wishful Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 3)

by Angela Pepper

  “She did sell me the house. Yes.”

  “Dreadful woman.” The real estate agent shuddered dramatically. “And so terrible at her job.”

  I laughed. I liked this brunette. “Dorothy Tibbits was a terrible real estate agent,” I agreed.

  She pretended to slap herself across the cheek. “Shame on you, Reyna. We mustn’t speak ill of the dead.”

  Her name rang a bell. “Did you say your name was Reyna?” As in Reyna Drinkwater?

  “Yes. Reyna Drinkwater.” She jerked her head in the direction of the For Sale sign. I read it fully for the first time. The house was being marketed by a local company called Akorn Realty, which had to be a sister company to Akorn Development. And the woman with the dark auburn, rain-proof bob standing before me had her photo on the sign. She was Reyna Drinkwater. We’d never met, but I’d definitely heard of her, and not for good reasons.

  I kept a mask of a smile on my face as she handed me a soggy business card.

  I thanked her, and we made small talk about the weather for a while before agreeing it was best to head for shelter before the rain got serious. I scarcely heard a word she said, because my mind was reeling from the mention of her name.

  Reyna Drinkwater. I had a great memory for the names of known troublemakers.

  Back when my father had first showed his foxy nose in town, I’d suspected his business was connected to a woman named Reyna Drinkwater. It turned out she wasn’t involved, but I discovered she did have a history of malicious mischief. It was suspected—but never proven—that she was the party responsible for releasing a number of wild animals—plus a tame donkey—inside a property that Akorn Development was trying to acquire below market rates.

  Reyna Drinkwater, criminal or not, was definitely trouble. And now she was in charge of selling Chet Moore’s house? Chet was the same one who’d hired Dorothy Tibbits to take care of his deceased neighbor’s estate.

  Way to pick ’em, Chet.

  * * *

  “Drinkwater is small time,” Bentley said over the tiny speaker in my phone.

  I was in Foxy Pumpkin heading toward the library, talking to him on speakerphone while I drove.

  “Everyone’s small time until they pull off a big caper,” I said.

  “Caper?” He sounded confused. “What’s this about a big caper? I thought you said she was the listing agent for the Moore house.”

  Another voice piped in. “We can look into Drinkwater’s recent business dealings, if that makes you feel more comfortable, Zara.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Rose,” I said flatly, then, haughtily, “I didn’t realize I was speaking to multiple people on this call. I certainly didn’t mean to trouble half of the Wisteria Police Department with any of my petty concerns as a citizen.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble,” Bentley’s annoying new partner replied brightly. “I like it when you call us. You always have such interesting news.”

  I clenched my jaw. The worst thing about Persephone Rose was her niceness. The worse I was to her, the nicer she got. It almost made me feel bad.

  Bentley cut in. “I’ll call you back later,” he said. When I’m alone was implied. “Have a great afternoon at work.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Shush some people for me. Shush them real good.”

  I couldn’t help but crack a grin. Bentley and I had developed a number of inside jokes during our weeks of dating. The whole Sexy Librarian routine was perhaps the most obvious of our games, but you know what they say: Stereotypes exist for a reason. I loved hearing about Bentley threatening to charge citizens with misdemeanors, and he loved hearing about me shushing library patrons. A little bit of power wielded unjustly was always a turn-on.

  We said goodbye, and I clicked on the turn signal as I approached the library’s staff parking lot.

  The car’s horn spontaneously began honking. A warning? I looked around. Everything looked rainy but otherwise normal. I rolled into a staff parking spot slowly. I cast a threat-detection spell, but nothing lit up. The car kept honking. A few people walking by with umbrellas were staring my way. The honking rose in pitch. I held my hands up so they could see it wasn’t me honking. It’s the car, I mouthed—not that they cared.

  I turned the keys to kill the engine. The honk died slowly and dramatically, like a new actor milking their first death scene for maximum screen time.

  It finished with a final death gasp. BOOOOP-PHWEEEEEEEEP-EEP-EEp-eeeep.

  “That was a bit over the top,” I said to the car when all was said and done. “What’s the matter, Foxy Pumpkin? Do you hate the rain, too?”

  No response, which was typical. The car had never communicated with me before, much less talked back.

  “You’ll be okay, ol’ gal.” I patted the dashboard. “Maybe it’s time I track down Mr. Blackstone and get him to name his price for a tune-up.”

  I didn’t know about the car, but the promise of taking action made me feel better.

  I grabbed my purse, exited the car, and made the dash through the rain to the library.

  I entered through the staff door at the side. I was setting my pink leather purse on the staff lunch table and magically drying the rain off myself when I heard screaming coming from the public area of the library.

  A lot of screaming.

  I ran out, fingers tingling.

  One of the junior staff members ran toward me, her face ashen and her eyes bulging. “Zara, I thought he was sleeping, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t sleeping. He’s dead, Zara. Dead. He died in his chair.”

  I reined in my power so I didn’t zap the young woman by accident, and grabbed her hands. I looked into her frightened eyes and asked, “Who?”

  As her mouth opened to form the first syllable of his name, my heart sunk. I already knew by the shape of her lips what she was going to say.

  Harry Blackstone.

  “Ha—” The name choked in her throat. Her eyes flooded and overflowed with tears.

  Gently, I asked, “Mr. Blackstone?”

  She nodded.

  I folded her into my arms as though she was my daughter. She was young, and she was someone’s daughter. I stroked her hair.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “He was quite sick. It was bound to happen eventually.”

  “But Harry was so... nice.”

  “I know. Even nice people die sometimes.”

  Our touching moment was interrupted by fresh screaming as another person discovered the dead body in the library.

  Chapter 13

  Harry Blackstone was dead.

  Frank and I ushered out all the patrons and junior staff members, and then closed early for the day. People would be upset over the short hours, but they’d be more upset to check out their cookbooks and such in the presence of the recently deceased.

  The first person to arrive at the library in an official capacity was Dr. Jerry Lund. He was the DWM’s Medical Examiner, who not only knew about magic but was researching the physical evidence of magical abilities. He could be creepy, such as when he talked excitedly about autopsies, but his relaxed, egalitarian manner usually put me at ease. He was curious and inquisitive, like his colleague Dr. Ankh, but without her prejudices about “indiscriminate interbreeding.” I was glad the Department had sent Lund and not Ankh. It was always easier to be around people who didn’t refer to my family as “mutts.”

  I met Jerry Lund by the front door, where he had stopped in the lobby to check the supplies he’d carried in. His assistants were still outside, unloading a gurney from the unmarked van in the rain. Lund was low to the ground, crouched over an open bag of medical instruments. The man never looked more like a bullfrog than when he was squatting.

  He looked up, saw it was me, and said, “Ms. Riddle! Who have you killed now?”

  “Harry Blackstone,” I said.

  Lund’s wide-set, light-blue eyes bulged. I couldn’t be sure if he was reacting to the deceased’s name. His eyes were always bulging.

  “Harry Blackstone,�
�� he repeated neutrally, still squatting. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. But to be clear, I didn’t kill him.”

  “How can you be sure about that?” A smile spread across his wide, bullfrog mouth, making it even wider. “A spell of yours may have interacted with one of Harry’s pre-existing conditions. The man was riddled with brainweevil holes—even worse than poor ol’ Don Moore.”

  “I understand he had been ill.”

  Lund paused thoughtfully, then rose up to his full height, which was shorter than my own. “Mr. Blackstone was ill, until quite recently. Luckily for some of our more experienced field agents, Dr. Ankh’s trusty new serum has been approved for off-label use.” His fingers twitched excitedly. “I saw the remarkable results myself. Just a few drops of that elixir had quite the restorative effect. I understand Harry was getting back to his research. He told me himself he was working on his greatest invention yet.”

  “Any idea what that was?”

  Lund’s expression darkened. “He didn’t say. And it was a personal project, not on Department records.”

  “I guess we’ll never know. Not unless you’ve found a way to suck a person’s memories out of their brain.”

  “Not yet,” Lund said, sounding disappointed in himself. “So, what spells did you use on him? Did you shush him with magic? Was he being too noisy?”

  “I didn’t cast one single spell on the guy.” I held up one hand. “My word is my bond.”

  “If you say so. But you did know all about his health and his treatment protocols.”

  “Barely. He only mentioned something about a serum once. Other than that, I don’t know anything about it.”

  The squat, bowlegged Medical Examiner gave me a knowing look. “I’m sure you know plenty about the serum. It is, after all, the only thing keeping your boyfriend, the tall and handsome detective, from devouring you while you sleep.” He flicked his tongue over his plump lips. “Or so I assume.”

  “Oh, that serum,” I said with a sarcastic eye flash. “All hail the miracles of modern medical magic.” I could have said more, but didn’t. People were naturally curious about a relationship between a witch and a vampire, but it wasn’t my job to satisfy that curiosity.

  Lund picked up his bag of supplies and looked through the lobby’s interior doors. “Would you take me to the body, please? Or shall I sniff my way to it?”

  Fighting a gag at the idea of Lund sniffing his way to the body, I led the way.

  We hadn’t moved Harry from the spot where he’d died.

  As we walked, I could hear the krish-krish sound of Lund’s shoes on the low-pile commercial carpet behind me. The whole library was more hushed than it ever was at that time of day, thanks to being cleared of the public. There was only the rustling of our clothes, and the patter of rain on the windows, which became more prominent when we reached the nook and the body.

  Lund approached the figure slumped in the chair.

  “That is, indeed, Harry Blackstone,” he said resignedly. “I would know. We worked together on a few projects.” Lund gave me a quick glance. “All confidential, of course.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “Were you close?”

  “We worked together,” Lund said neutrally.

  He began examining the body, lifting first one arm and then the other. When the movement of Harry’s arms caused Harry’s head to loll to one side, the man appeared to be reanimating. For a fleeting moment, I felt a surge of hope that he might be waking from a deep slumber. But his eyelashes did not flutter open; he remained dead.

  “Interesting,” Lund said. “Look at that. The socks don’t match.”

  It was true. Harry’s socks were different colors and patterns.

  “Laundry day?” I guessed.

  “Or he left the house in a hurry this morning.” Lund ran his fingertips over Harry’s cheek with a gesture that was almost tender. “But not before shaving.”

  “Poor Harry,” I said, trying to look away out of respect but unable to.

  Lund breathed heavily and poked at the body with quick, jabbing motions, almost too fast for me to see.

  I asked with interest, “What are you checking him for?”

  “Lividity.”

  “The normal kind, or something magical?”

  “I won’t know until I check, will I?”

  “Ooh-kay,” I said, in that passive aggressive tone people used when they knew they were being talked down to.

  I stayed where I was, watching.

  The rain pelted the window, and the nook darkened.

  I should have left the good doctor to his business, yet I couldn’t walk away. I kept giving Harry’s lifeless face an expression of pity. I’m sorry, I thought.

  One of the staff members had informed me, between messy sobs, that when Harry had arrived at the library a few hours prior, he had asked to see me. I’d probably been across town at the bulk warehouse at that time. When Harry learned I wasn’t due in the library until after lunch, he’d announced that he would do some “reading” in his favorite chair until I arrived.

  The man had died while waiting to see me. Because of that, I felt an obligation to not leave him just yet.

  Standing there for no reason felt awkward, so I asked, “Say, Doc. Do shifters ever change after they die?”

  Lund, who preferred not to be called Doc because it brought to mind a certain Disney dwarf, shot me an amused look. “That would make for some rather startling crime scenes, don’t you think?”

  “And a lot of memory wipes, I bet.”

  He continued to look amused. “Is that your way of making a request, Ms. Riddle? Would you like to have the memory of this unpleasant afternoon removed from your memory?”

  “No!” I took a step back. “Not at all.” I wiped my palms on my hips. “And I’m sorry I called you Doc.”

  Outside, the wind surged, and the rain crashed against the window like a trapped bird.

  Lund returned his attention to the body, pushing up the man’s eyelids to examine his eyes.

  As he worked, he began speaking to me as though I was an intern taking notes. “I’m checking for petechiae now. None present. That alone doesn’t rule out death by asphyxiation, but it does help paint a picture.”

  “What sort of picture?” I stepped in closer. “Do you mean the cause of death? Do you know what killed him?”

  Lund chuckled. “Since the subject of my first hypothesis—Death By Hex of Witch—swears it wasn’t her, I’ll have to earn my paycheck this week. I’ll be conducting a full examination back at the Department.”

  “What did he have, anyway? I mean, besides brainweevil damage.”

  “That, I cannot say.”

  “Whatever it was, it was probably what killed him.”

  “Probably,” Lund agreed. “Unless it was Death By Hex of Witch after all.” He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps a member of your coven?”

  I snorted. “What have you got against witches, anyway? You didn’t have a problem with our witcher-i-doo ways when you were dating Maisy Nix.”

  Lund jerked his oversized head and gave me a surprised look. “You know about that?”

  “I know plenty of things,” I said airily. Maisy had told me about it herself, though I didn’t know why. Dating the pale, squat DWM doctor didn’t seem like something to brag about. But, then again, he was still a doctor, not to mention the least creepy of all the Department doctors I’d met.

  Lund changed the topic. “What do you know about Blackstone?”

  “He knew my father.”

  “Everyone knows your father.”

  “That’s what I’m finding out.”

  “What else?”

  I shrugged. “He liked to nap right here, by the window.” I gestured at the gray beyond the rain-rippled glass. “When it’s not raining, this is a nice place to sit.”

  Lund looked out the window. It offered very little view compared to the magical windows in his underground morgue. If we’d been having this conver
sation there, we could have enjoyed a sunny Alpine meadow, complete with a cow that looked back at us.

  After a moment of contemplating the rain, Lund said, “There are worse places to die. I imagine it was peaceful.”

  Then he turned and looked at me as though I was one of his subjects. His pale, bulging eyes seemed to be drinking me in.

  I scratched my neck self-consciously and scanned for something positive to focus on. I didn’t like having the Medical Examiner’s full attention. Avoiding eye contact reduced the eerie sensation he was planning my dissection.

  I scanned the tops of the nearby bookshelves. Some of the houseplants were looking less than robust. And we had cobwebs.

  There was a zipping sound.

  When I looked down at Harry’s chair again—it would always be Harry’s chair from that point on—it was empty. Two of Lund’s assistants were rolling away a gurney, topped by a full-looking body bag. I hadn’t even heard the activity over the rain on the window. Harry’s window.

  The assistants disappeared with the body. Lund was sniffing the air over and around the chair with great interest.

  “That was fast,” I commented. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

  Lund stopped sniffing and closed his medical bag with a crisp snap. “You can say goodbye at the funeral, assuming there is one. The man didn’t have much for next of kin. No wife or kids. Just a brother. I believe the brother works in the private sector.”

  “That’s a good idea about attending the funeral. I’ll bring a few of my coworkers, so it doesn’t look suspicious.”

  “I promise he’ll appear to be intact.” Lund’s fingers twitched eagerly. “From the outside.”

  Fighting another gag, I stared in the direction the gurney had disappeared.

  Lund followed my gaze and said, tiredly, “Please don’t track this one down and unzip it inside the transport vehicle.”