Wisteria Witches Mysteries Box Set 3

by Angela Pepper

  Zoey clamped her hand over my mouth. The new island was larger, but not too large for her to reach across to shut me up in the nick of time. With a hand-muffled voice, I promised to behave myself. She released my mouth and let out a huge sigh.

  “I’m over it now,” she said. “I always suspected that the people around here knew about our secrets, even though we don’t know theirs. On some level, I’ve always known, but it’s different to hear you say it out loud. It’s weird that the short girl we buy Boa’s cat food from knows about our family.”

  “You have to admit it’s a little closer to being fair now. Now that you know she’s a witch.”

  Zoey brightened. “Plus, she only thinks she knows. I’m actually a shifter, not a witch.”

  “Not so fast. That was the same clinic who stitched up Pawpaw. Fatima didn’t say as much, but she might know the fox was a family member.”

  “Right,” she said, her brightness fading.

  And then I opened my big, dumb mouth and said something I shouldn’t have. “But Fatima doesn’t know about your birth father.”

  My daughter narrowed her eyes at me. “What do you mean?”

  Zoey, your father’s a genie! A demon!

  The truth burned in my throat. Oh, how I wanted to tell her the truth. Except I didn’t. I wanted someone else to tell her. What could I do? How could I stifle the burning in my throat?

  I grabbed a wonton and stuffed it in my mouth.

  She repeated herself. “What do you mean?”

  With wonton crumbs spraying everywhere, I started rambling. “All I mean is that nobody knows everything about a person. There’s always a bit of mystery. For example, today I discovered that Bentley has a sense of humor. It’s very dry, or at least I think it’s dry. Is dry what you call it when it’s more cruel than funny? I mean, does anyone find sarcasm funny when they’re the target of it? People say puns are the lowest form of humor, but maybe it’s sarcasm.”

  Zoey continued to stare at me with narrowed eyes. She saw through my rambling as easily as she saw through my lies.

  I kept going. When in doubt, double down! “Oh, speaking of Bentley, I learned today that he is a very generous tipper, at least when it comes to coffee.”

  In a low, level tone, she said, “You sure like to talk about Bentley a lot.”

  “Never mind about Bentley. Who do you think killed Ishmael Greyson?”

  Her expression relaxed, and she glanced up at the ceiling the way she did when she encountered an intriguing logic puzzle. Ziggity! I had successfully engaged her intellect and steered her away from the taboo topic of her birth father.

  She considered my question for a while before replying carefully, “Based on what you’ve told me so far, it sounds like the aunt who owns the coffee shop has a weak alibi. Who stays up all night roasting coffee when it could be done any time of day?”

  I gasped. “You’re right. That is very suspicious.” I’d been so distracted by the counterspell, I hadn’t seen the obvious.

  Zoey beamed. “See? I could be very helpful on investigations.” She touched her finger to the tip of her nose. “And not just with my sniffer.”

  I nodded. “The criminal masterminds of Wisteria need to think up better alibis if they want to get away with murder in our town.”

  Her smile faded. “I hope it wasn’t Maisy Nix, though. It would be nice for you to have some witch friends besides Auntie Z.”

  I rested my elbows on the counter and my chin in my hands. “I feel the same way. I mean, she scares me in a mean cheerleader way, but I also want to be part of her posse. You can take the girl out of high school, but you can’t take the high school out of the girl.”

  “I wonder if there’s one coven in town or more than one. Whenever I ask Auntie Z, she pretends she doesn’t hear me.”

  “Speaking of Auntie Z, I forgot to tell you the big news.”

  “Is she coming back early?”

  “Not that I know of. The big news is I found out where she works. Would you believe she has an actual job?”

  “I might believe it. What kind of job?”

  “She works for City Hall. In the permits department.”

  Zoey shook her head. “I don’t believe it. That’s just... so... ordinary.”

  “Observe.” I pulled out my phone, put it on speakerphone, and called the number for her department. Zinnia was on vacation, so she wouldn’t answer, and besides, it was Saturday, so there was no danger of anyone in the office answering the call.

  A recorded voice came over my phone speaker: This is Zinnia Riddle. You have reached the Special Buildings Division of the Wisteria Permits Department. I’m out of the country right now, but if you’d like to leave a message, please do so, as this inbox is being monitored. Thank you.

  After the beep, I said into the receiver, “Busted. This is your niece, Zara. Call me when you get this.” I ended the call and set the phone on the counter between us.

  Zoey’s mouth was agape.

  I asked innocently, “Should I have been more subtle?”

  “You sure couldn’t have been less subtle.”

  “Oh, come on. I didn’t say anything about figuring out Maisy and Fatima are witches.” I reached for the phone. “I’ll call back and leave a second message.”

  Zoey yanked my phone out of reach. “Don’t you dare. Auntie Z is on vacation. You’ll stress her out and make her do that thing where she pulls on her thumb.”

  “She pulls on her thumb? Is it part of casting a spell?”

  “It’s a nervous thing she does when you push her too far. You haven’t noticed?” Zoey set down my phone and tugged on her own thumb in a gesture that suddenly did strike me as familiar. “She does this. Like she’s making sure her thumb’s still attached.”

  “You’re right! She does do that, usually while she’s giving me a lecture about being careful.”

  “For all the good it does,” Zoey said teasingly.

  “She’s right that I should be more careful, but she’s wrong about keeping all her secrets to herself. How am I supposed to know who to be careful around if I don’t know who’s got what powers?”

  Zoey shook her head. “Don’t try to twist this around. I think you should let Auntie Z tell you things herself, when she’s ready.” She paused for emphasis. “Even if it takes a few more months. Be patient.”

  “You may not have noticed this before, but your mother doesn’t sit on things for long.” My eye twitched. That wasn’t entirely true. “I would only keep secrets from my loved ones if I felt it was absolutely necessary for their own protection.”

  “Such as?”

  “When you were just a wee little girl, I never told you the Boob Fairy wasn’t real. In fact, I kept up the ruse by sneaking into your room at night and leaving training bras under your pillow.” I paused thoughtfully. “It’s funny. You never believed in Santa Claus, not for a hot minute, but you believed in the Boob Fairy right up until she blessed you with your first bumps.”

  Zoey rolled her eyes. “That’s not quite how I remember it.”

  “You don’t remember our long conversations about how the Boob Fairy would have to use the fire escape to visit us since our apartment didn’t have a chimney?”

  She flattened her lips and gave me a humorless look. But I’d spent the last three hours riding around with Bentley, so I was immune to humorless looks and shrugged it off easily.

  The doorbell rang, interrupting whatever might have come next.

  “Doorbell,” I said to my daughter.

  “Doorbell?” She gave me a fake confused look. “Do you mean that funny little sound that goes ding-dong? Could that be the doorbell?”

  I gave her a pointed look. Answering the door was her job and hers alone. “Doorbell.”

  “I don’t hear anything,” she said. “Have you checked your ears? Auntie Z said brainweevils can cause auditory hallucinations before they eat your brains.”

  Whoever was at the door rang the bell again.

 
I pointed to the air. “Doorbell.”

  She cupped her hand to her ear. “Is that an ice cream truck I hear? Does an ice cream truck go ding-dong?”

  I rubbed my hands together and blasted her buttocks with the spell that mimicked a nip by a toothy animal.

  She jumped off the stool, shrieking. She twirled in a circle, looking to see what had bit her. When she realized it had been my new spell, she gave me a wide-eyed, indignant look. “Oh, no, you didn’t,” she breathed.

  “That was nothing,” I said. “That was the Teacup Chihuahua level. Barely any tooth in it. And besides, you deserved it.” I pointed to the air, as though the ding-dong of the doorbell still hung there above us. “You have one job, Zoey.”

  “You’re such a mom,” she said huffily.

  I twitched one finger threateningly. “The next level is Toy Poodle.”

  She ran toward the front door making a sound halfway between terror and delight, just as I knew she would.

  Chapter 17

  Zoey returned to the kitchen, ashen-faced. She said in a hushed tone, “Mom, there’s a man at the front door. It’s the guy from the murder house.”

  I whispered back, “What does he want?”

  “He asked for Winona Vander Zalm.” Winona Vander Zalm was the former owner of our home. She’d been dead for close to a year, which was how I’d come to be in possession of her magical house.

  “That’s odd,” I said.

  “I know, right? I didn’t want to tell him she’s dead. He’s had a rough day.”

  “But he already knows Winona’s dead. He’s the one who told me how she went.” I shook away the thought and patted my daughter on the shoulder. “That was kind of you to spare his feelings, Zoey. I’ll go talk to him.” I gave her a kiss on the forehead. “You’re a good kid.”

  She grabbed Boa, huddled the white fluffball in her arms, and ran upstairs to her room. I went to the front door, checking my outfit as I did. I was still wearing the morning’s gray wool suit, and felt grateful I hadn’t changed into sweatpants yet. Heaven forbid I wear comfortable clothes and not have my hair perfectly in place, or Arden was liable to mistake me for a homeless person like Fatima had.

  I reached the front door, which stood ajar. Standing patiently in the shade of my front porch was Arden Greyson. He wore jeans and a plaid short-sleeved shirt. In one hand, he carried a fishing tackle box. His dog, a chocolate-brown Labradoodle, sat not-so-patiently at his side. When Doodles saw me, she pranced on the spot and wagged her tail so hard that her whole butt swung back and forth.

  “Mr. Greyson,” I said.

  He gave me a double take, as though he truly had been expecting the elegant and well-preserved Winona Vander Zalm.

  He squinted at me. “Zara, is it? Zara Riddle?” He switched the tackle box to his left hand and offered me his right to shake.

  “That’s right.” I shook his hand, which felt weak and boneless. “I moved in here with my daughter back in March. We’ve met a few times. I bought this house after Ms. Vander Zalm passed away earlier this year.”

  He limply withdrew his hand from mine and slapped it against his forehead. “Darn my spotty memory. I knew that.” He shook his head. “Was that your daughter who answered the door just now?”

  “Yes. My daughter, Zoey.”

  “The poor girl must think I’m crazy, ringing your doorbell and asking to see a dead woman.” Another head shake and a sheepish smile. “Please apologize to her on my behalf. I’ve had a difficult day, and I suppose it slipped my mind that Ms. Vander Zalm was no longer with us.”

  I leaned to the side and glanced past him down the street. Most of the crime scene vehicles had moved on from in front of his place. Only a single unmarked van remained.

  Arden Greyson followed my gaze. “I suppose you already heard the news.” His voice was gritty with pain. The crime scene flashed in my mind. The red streaks on the walls. The headless body. The blood congealing on the black leather of the sofa.

  “I’ve heard,” I agreed.

  “Bad news travels like wildfire,” he said.

  I took a step back, inviting him to come in. My manners were not perfect, but I knew better than to make a person discuss their loved one’s recent homicide on my front porch.

  “People will talk,” I said. “Would you like to join me for a cup of tea?”

  “Why, thank you for the kind offer, but I wouldn’t want to impose.” His words said no, yet he didn’t turn to leave.

  “I insist.” I waved him in. It was what Winona would have wanted.

  Doodles trotted in confidently. She didn’t need a third invitation. Her owner followed, muttering apologies for interrupting my day. The dog barked sharply and trotted to the base of the stairs. She stood up on her hind legs and sniffed the railing—the railing that Ribbons slid down regularly.

  Arden stared mutely at his dog, who was attempting to climb the stairs on two feet so she didn’t have to take her moist brown nose off the tantalizing smells of the railing.

  Arden asked Doodles, “What is it, girl?” He asked me, “You don’t have peanut butter smeared on the railing, do you?”

  “She must be smelling our cat,” I said.

  Arden frowned. “It must be a real special cat.”

  “Not as special as she thinks she is,” I said.

  He chuckled. “That’s cats for you.”

  I waved for him to follow me back to my extra-spacious kitchen. He set the tackle box on the ample island’s counter and scanned the room. His wrinkles melted and his eyes grew wider as he scanned.

  “It’s real nice, what you’ve done with Winona’s place,” he said. “Funny. The kitchen is smaller than I recall. That’s memory for you.”

  “Really? I swear it’s bigger than it was yesterday.”

  His eyebrows knitted. “Beg your pardon?”

  I waved a hand. “Just a joke about my housekeeping skills.” I filled the kettle and listed the selection of teas available. He chose a Rooibos blend, and took a seat at the island. Doodles came in just long enough to whimper at her owner before she trotted out again—presumably to sniff around for the wyvern. Good luck, I thought. I could never find Ribbons if he didn’t want to be found, and I doubted the dog would do any better no matter how keen her nose.

  Arden didn’t speak until after he’d taken his first sip of tea.

  “There was an accident,” he said. “Or I suppose it wasn’t an accident. My great-nephew was killed last night. He’s the one who was renting the apartment above my garage.” He stared into the honey-colored tea. “It’s a real mess up there. They gave me some cards for the people who clean things like that. Did you know there are people whose jobs are to clean things like that?”

  “Yes.” I took a sip of my own tea. “I’ve never used those services before, but I understand it’s a special type of job.”

  “You’re a librarian, isn’t that right?”

  “I am.”

  “You must know all sorts of things.”

  “I have picked up a fair bit of information over the years. Some of it useful, some of it not so much.” Doodles entered the kitchen and came to my side for some reassuring pets. Her coiled fur was impossibly soft. I wanted to bury my face in her silky ears. How could terrible things like beheadings happen in the same world that also had soft Labradoodles?

  After a stretch of silence, I said, “Mr. Greyson, I’m very sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know. I guess when things like this happen, neighbors bring over casseroles. I’m not much of a cook, but I’ve learned you can use the potato chip crumbs at the bottom of the bag for a great casserole topping, and I can always give it a shot.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you,” he said. “There must be something about this house, that it only attracts good women. Winona was an odd bird, but she had a good heart. I suppose the reason you found me on your porch today is because there’s still something of Winona left behind here in this house.”

  L
ittle did he know!

  He brought his gaze up to meet mine. “Do you believe in that sort of thing? People leaving behind a sort of energy?”

  “I can’t say that I don’t.” I gave him a gentle smile. “I have a very open mind.”

  He turned toward the kitchen’s only window, a far-away look in his eyes. “I swear I saw Ishmael walking through my house this morning, right when I was heading out fishing. I figured he’d snuck into my place to grab some coffee. Typical bachelor, he was always short on some thing or another. I started talking to him like he was there, except when I followed him into the kitchen, he wasn’t there.” His eyes flicked from the window to mine. “Must have been his ghost.”

  He stared at me, unwavering.

  I answered slowly. “Plenty of people have reported seeing ghosts. You wouldn’t be the first.”

  “I’m not crazy. Forgetful, yes. And eccentric.” He grinned. “Maybe too eccentric for my own good.”

  “Nothing wrong with a little eccentricity.”

  “I knew you’d understand,” he said, sounding relieved. “Now, I’d like to ask you a question. If it’s none of my business, just say so, and I’ll leave it be.”

  “Sure. I mean, ask away.”

  He leaned back and rubbed his chin as he gave me a long look.

  Finally, he spoke. “Now, what is it that makes a beautiful, smart woman such as yourself want to become a librarian?”

  I let out a surprised laugh. I’d been expecting something a lot more personal.

  “A woman like you could have been anything, I imagine,” he said. “Why did you want to spend your days with a bunch of musty old books?”

  Still laughing, I struck a finger in the air. “First of all, the materials in a well-run library should never be musty.”

  I went on to tell him about the cleaning and preservation systems used by modern libraries.

  He asked another question, and then another, becoming more interested with each answer.

  Rarely had I enjoyed such an enthusiastic grilling about my profession.

  The time passed, as it always does in these rare magical moments, quickly and without friction.

  * * *