“Cornstarch is not very authentic,” Zoey agreed. “What’s that in your hair? Mud?”
“Chocolate pudding. At least I hope it’s chocolate pudding. I was posing for some photos this morning with families, and a little girl decided to share her snack with me.”
Zoey leaned in and sniffed Griffin’s hair. “It’s chocolate pudding,” she said.
“Phew.” He pretended to wipe his brow. “You must have a good sense of smell.”
“Why, thank you.” She struck a flirty pose with her shoulders bunched up. She moved her hands, holding the takeout coffee and pastries, down toward her knees. My daughter was flirting! My cheeks burned. I felt embarrassed for spying on her. Not enough to stop, though.
Griffin cracked a grin and glanced around. “I gotta get back to my cave. You should come see me after the Egypt display.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of missing the chance to see you in your native habitat.”
“Hey, if you’re not busy tonight, you should come with us to the beach.”
“Us?”
“The museum staff. We’re going to build a big bonfire and take some promo photos for the website. You could be in the pictures. I’ll get you a spare cavewoman dress.”
She took a step backward. “Thanks for the offer, but I need to help my mom with something tonight.” She nodded in my direction.
He turned his head and looked right at me. “That’s your mom? I thought she was your big sister.”
Zoey groaned. “Whatever you do, never tell her that. Promise.”
Griffin chuckled. “Your mom looks okay.” He frowned. “That’s weird. It looks like she can hear what we’re saying.”
Zoey whipped her head, locked eyes with mine, and shot me with daggers. “That is weird,” she said through gritted teeth. “It might look like she can hear every word we’re saying, but I’m sure it’s just an illusion. Like how the eyes in a painting seem to follow you. I’m sure she’s just zoned out thinking about something else.”
“If you say so.” Griffin backed away casually. “So, uh, let me know if you change your mind about tonight.”
She said goodbye and made a beeline straight for me.
When she reached me, I pretended to be surprised. “Back so soon? I was totally zoned out. You know how I am.”
“I thought we didn’t spy on each other.”
“In my defence, you were in a public space. I could have just as easily walked over there and heard everything. The only reason I didn’t was because I didn’t want to lose our spot in the line.”
“Were you using your new sound tunnel spell?”
I nodded. “My first time casting it without Aunt Zinnia’s help.”
She swished her lips from side to side, trying to decide how angry she ought to be.
“It worked perfectly,” I said.
She frowned. “It’s good to know it works. Promise you won’t listen in on me again, unless it’s an emergency.”
I held up one hand. “I promise.”
She handed me the coffee and a Danish in a waxy wrapper. “I don’t know why you had to listen in. You know I was going to tell you everything he said anyway.”
“I know. But look at all the time I saved you.”
She took a mouthful of her own Danish and chewed it thoughtfully.
I asked, “Why did you say no to the bonfire party? It sounds fun.”
“I don’t know. Does your mouth ever say no when your brain says yes?”
I gave her question just enough consideration to make my cheeks burn again. Last month at Castle Wyvern, I’d said no to the monster who called himself Archer Caine. It had been difficult for me to say no, because every cell in my body had wanted to say yes. I didn’t always win the yes-no struggle. I had made the mistake of saying yes on that fateful night seventeen years ago, and look where it had gotten me.
“Uh, Mom?” Zoey was giving me a concerned look. “Is everything okay in there?”
I licked my lips. There was no good time to talk to Zoey about her father, but the longer I waited, the worse it got. I would tell her soon.
“Let’s go somewhere special after we’re done here,” I said. “Anywhere you want. How about the fancy place where they serve high tea?”
She frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’d like to treat you to a nice afternoon. Why’s that so suspicious?”
“High tea,” she said matter-of-factly. “That sounds like something you’d make fun of Auntie Z for being interested in.”
“True. But I would like to be somewhere extra-civilized while I talk to you about something important.”
“Like beheaded bodies and serial killers in our neighborhood?”
“Don’t worry. It’s got nothing to do with what I saw this morning. Nothing at all.” As I said the words, I realized I couldn’t be certain of that fact. Headless bodies could be connected to any number of monsters, including genies.
“Can I get a hint?” Her hazel eyes twinkled.
Just then, we were approached by a man in a gray suit. He was walking briskly and breathing heavily. It was Detective Theodore Bentley.
“Uh-oh,” I said under my breath.
Zoey saw the detective and whispered, “Is he here to get a statement?”
“My phone call was anonymous,” I said.
Bentley reached us. “There you are,” he said breathlessly. “I knew you had to be in here as soon as I saw your rusty bucket in the parking lot.”
“Rusty bucket?” I clutched my hand to my chest in mock indignation. “Her name is Foxy Pumpkin, and she’s rust-free, thank you very much.”
He gave Zoey a pained, apologetic look. “Miss Riddle, would you mind if I borrow your mother for a moment?”
She gave him a sweet smile and a shrug. “As long as you bring her back in one piece.”
One piece? “Ouch,” I said, thinking of the morning’s headless body. “Too soon.”
She wiped the smile off her face and nodded solemnly. “Too soon,” she agreed.
I walked off to talk privately with Bentley.
Chapter 5
Detective Theodore Bentley was dressed in his usual gray suit, minus the tie. He’d given in to the summer heat wave and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. Peeking out of his jacket pocket was the dark gray tie he must have removed earlier.
As we walked over to a quiet area of the museum atrium, Bentley scanned the crowd with his hooded, steely gray eyes. The police detective was classically handsome, like an Old Hollywood actor. He had a square face, prominent brow ridge, and hollow cheeks. His neck was muscular with a visible Adam’s apple. His lips were thin, as though all the bulk had been squashed out on purpose. His nose was thick, with a mild crookedness that suggested a history of being broken by a fist at least once. His hair was dark and lush, shot with streaks of silver, blossoming outward from the sharp point of a widow’s peak on his smooth forehead. His dark, bushy eyebrows were straight when he was relaxed and curved downward when he frowned. He was frowning as he stopped walking and turned to face me.
“Tell me who did it,” he said.
“Who did what? Are you talking about the...” I used my finger to draw a straight line across my neck.
“No more games,” he said, his voice gruff and gravelly. “I know about all your ways, and I won’t be played for a fool. Not anymore.”
He seemed more cranky than usual. I still had my pastry in its bag, so I withdrew it now and waved the flaky roll under Bentley’s nose.
“I bet you’re hungry,” I said. “You probably got the call from dispatch at dawn, which means you’ve been on the case these last few hours. You could use more than a nibble, but you can start with this.”
He ignored the pastry and continued to stare at me with those steely gray eyes. He growled, “Zara.”
The sound of my name on his lips sent a shiver through my spine. There was a strength to the detective I hadn’t seen before. There was col
d fire in those hooded eyes, combustion in that voice.
I lifted my chin and met his gaze. “Theodore,” I said coolly. “Or should I say... Teddy B?” That was what my mother had called him last month at the castle, when they’d been dating—or whatever it was they’d been doing with each other. I suspected she’d been feeding on his blood, not the artificial serum she claimed sustained her undead state. Not that it was any of my business either way. Ew.
Bentley’s mouth crushed into a flat line. I stared into the detective’s cool, mercury-like eyes. The din of the crowd roared around us, sounding like a crashing waterfall.
“Call me Bentley,” he said. “Things haven’t changed that much.”
But things had changed. While the detective remained a mere human with no supernatural powers, he had recently found out about magic. He knew I was a witch who channelled ghosts, and yet he hadn’t yet figured out what my mother was.
“Eat the pastry,” I urged. “You know you want to.”
“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m here on business.”
“Of course you are. I’m sorry I tried to offer you a delicious pastry. I didn’t mean to waste your time and be difficult.”
His steely gray eyes flicked up to mine. He nearly smiled. “You don’t mean to waste my time and be difficult? I thought that was your M.O.”
“Ha ha.” I took a sip from my paper cup of coffee. “How are things going? Did you manage to track down the head?”
He looked past me, his gaze unfocused. “We shouldn’t be talking about this in public. The victim’s next of kin hasn’t been notified yet.”
I switched the pastry to my coffee hand and wiggled my fingers in front of his face to get his attention. Once I had it, I arched an eyebrow and asked, “Mind if I put up a sound-bubble spell? It’ll give us all the privacy we need.”
An expression of disgust flashed across his face. Then he blinked once, slowly, and nodded. “Go ahead.”
I twirled my tongue inside my mouth to summon forth the Witch Tongue, the language of witch magic. I exhaled to reset, inhaled fresh air, and cast the spell that would give us privacy. I used my free hand to guide the boundary lines. The air around us grew damp and heavy due to the spell’s compression, then lightened again on a breeze that didn’t exist. Now that I was more practiced at casting the sound-bubble spell, I noticed the subtle side effects.
In a deliberately loud voice, I said, “I’m ready to discuss the recent homicide! Let’s talk about all the gushing blood and the headless body!”
Bentley’s dark, straight eyebrows lifted so high that his hooded eyelids smoothed out. He looked past me, and then his eyebrows returned to their normal position.
“It must be working,” he said. None of the people walking by were giving us a second look.
“So?” I peered up at him expectantly as I took another sip of museum coffee. “Where was the head? What happened in that apartment? Are we dealing with an Ichabod Crane situation? Or, should I say, a headless horseman situation? Should I be listening for hoofbeats?”
He stared at me.
I rolled it back to just one question. “Did you find the head?”
“We found it inside a trophy cabinet, inside the residence.”
My hand went to my mouth. A head in a trophy cabinet. That was some next-level serial killer stuff. Suddenly, I wanted to run away and be somewhere else. I wanted to shower.
Since becoming a witch, I’d witnessed a lot of gruesome things without reacting the way a normal person would. But the idea of a head in a trophy cabinet was downright profane. It was even worse than the headless body sitting on a couch. At least a body belonged on a couch. A head belonged on a pillow, or with its body.
“That poor young man,” I said.
“Did you know him? His name was Ishmael Greyson.”
“Ishmael Greyson?” At the mention of the name, a few puzzle pieces clicked into place in my head. The last name was familiar. “He must be related to Arden Greyson.”
“You know Arden?”
“Not well. I know his dog, Doodles, better than I know Arden. I’ve bumped into them—the old man and the dog—around the neighborhood a few times.”
“Did he say anything about his nephew?”
“He did mention that he’s always helping out his family. He’s got a niece he loaned money to for some business venture. Now that I think about it, he did mention a nephew who was staying with him.” I swallowed hard. My throat was burning. I looked down at the floor. “I guess that was Arden’s apartment-garage?”
“It was.” Bentley sounded more friendly when I wasn’t looking at his face. He continued, “Ishmael is Arden’s great-nephew. He was only twenty-six.”
I murmured, “Such a shame.” I nudged a pebble across the museum’s floor with the toe of my shoe.
“Now, if you’ll just tell me who killed the young man, I’ll be on my way.”
I looked up into Bentley’s eyes. He had a hard expression. The muscles on his cheeks bulged as he clenched his jaw.
“I don’t know who killed him,” I said, my voice rising in pitch and volume. “Honestly, I don’t know anything about his death.”
“Come on, Zara. I thought we were past the games. I know about your powers, and the way you talk to ghosts.”
“Bentley, I’m not holding out on you. Not anymore.”
“But you knew about the body. You disguised your voice and blocked your phone number when you called it in, but we both know it was you who made the report. There’s got to be more to the story.”
“Just a tiny bit more. It all started when my, uh, pets woke me up before dawn. I checked on Zoey, then went downstairs, where I found a ghost sitting on my couch. I tried to communicate with him, but he seemed to think that I was a ghost, not him.”
Bentley cocked his head. “That’s odd.”
“Yes and no. Ghosts are usually confused. They don’t experience time the way we do. They’re slipping between worlds, caught up everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Plus, they don’t necessarily know they’re dead.”
“Did the ghost have his...?” Bentley gestured to his head.
“Yes, he had his head on when he was in ghost form. Thankfully. He had ears and a mouth, but he couldn’t hear me or speak to me. We weren’t able to communicate. I only sat with him for a couple of minutes, five minutes tops, before he got up and left. He walked right through me, then out the front door.”
“Is that normal?”
I chuckled. “Normal is just a setting on the dishwasher.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Is that typical?”
“It’s not atypical, but keep in mind I have limited experience with ghosts. I’m a late bloomer, remember.”
“Did you summon him back? With a spell?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t even know how. I pulled on some sandals and followed him across the street. He led me over to his place.”
“At which point you entered the residence?”
I smiled, feeling I’d won a point for showing some restraint. “I didn’t go inside the residence. I only looked in the window. Then I went home and called in the report.” My smile broadened. “Like a good witch.” Zara tries to be a good witch!
“And where is the ghost now?” Bentley winced. “He’s standing behind me, isn’t he?”
I hadn’t seen the ghost since making the phone call to the police, but I looked around, just to be certain. “He’s not here,” I reported. “He’s been gone since the sun came up.”
“Is that normal? I mean typical? They disappear in the daytime?”
I scratched my head. “I don’t know.”
“What aren’t you telling me, Zara?”
“The thing is, what happened this morning is both typical and atypical. It’s normal for ghosts to show up and mess with my life. But usually it’s because they turn into smoke, go up my nose, get into my head, and sort of...”
Bentley cocked his head. “Possess you?”
“For lack of a better word, yes. They tend to possess me. But they aren’t in full control the whole time.” I patted my collarbone. “I’m still me most of the time. But they do talk sometimes using my mouth, repeating things they said when they were alive.”
“And?”
He’d sensed there was more, and he was right. “They influence me in subtle ways. For example, Winona Vander Zalm got me to throw dinner parties. Remember her?”
“I do recall the Vander Zalm homicide. And I recall that you knew who killed her.” He blinked. “So, tell me who killed Ishmael Greyson.”
“The thing about the Vander Zalm homicide is I didn’t find out from the ghost of Winona herself. I had to figure it out by doing research, talking to people, and putting together clues.”
“That sounds a lot like my job.”
“It sure does.” I grinned. “I’ve been doing your job for a while now, and not getting paid.”
He rubbed his square jaw and took a thoughtful moment before saying, “This Greyson case will get closed faster if we work together for a change.” There was a note of accusation in his voice that rubbed me the wrong way.
“That’s not fair,” I said indignantly. “I’ve been cooperating. I’ve been good.” Zara tries to be a good witch! “Did my mother say something about me being uncooperative?”
He gave me a blank look. “Your mother?” All the color dropped out of his face.
“Yes. My mother. The woman you were hooking up with last month. Zirconia Riddle. She looks like me, except older and meaner. Also, her hair is black. You don’t remember? Her name is Zirconia. Repeat it after me. Zirconia.”
“Zirconia,” he said slowly, numbly. “Cubic zirconia is a type of synthetic gemstone.”
“And she’s a person.”
He mumbled incomprehensibly. We weren’t getting anywhere.
I waved a hand to dismiss the topic of my mother. As much as I wanted to fill in the gaps in Bentley’s memories, he might have been better off not knowing he’d served as a blood bag snack for a certain creature of the night.
Wardens of Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 1) Page 4