Wisteria Witches (Witch Cozy Mystery and Paranormal Romance) Read online

  I tried to find out more about him, but he kept redirecting the conversation back to me, and heaven knows I do love a captive audience.

  After the pizza, Corvin ran next door and returned with fresh brownies and vanilla ice cream. I was so cozy. My body felt like an al dente noodle. I relaxed into the corner of the sofa and reached for my favorite patchwork quilt to draw across my lap.

  Chet was talking to Zoey about her aspirations beyond high school and then…

  Nothing.

  I was falling down a tunnel that was both dark and bright at the same time, a swirling rainbow of starbursts. Thunder cracked around me. The world tipped sideways and I lurched to a stop.

  Everything was dark.

  I opened my eyes. It was still dark, but things started taking shape.

  I was in the kitchen. The room's lights were off, but enough ambient light was coming in from the street lamps that I could dimly make out my surroundings. How did I get to the kitchen? Why was I wearing the long flannel nightgown that I hated because it always got tangled around my legs? What was I doing?

  Something in front of me was glowing red. The toaster.

  With a startling KERCLUNK, the toaster's handle popped up. Two pieces of blackened bread appeared before me, smoldering.

  I yanked the charred toast from the still-glowing appliance and tossed both pieces in the sink. They continued to smolder. I doused them with water to stop tendrils of smoke from reaching the room's smoke detector.

  Think, Zara. What's the last thing you remember? Feeling drowsy on the sofa. Chet's green eyes. The scent of him. Being completely comfortable.

  I must have fallen asleep while entertaining the neighbors. That was embarrassing, but understandable, considering I'd spent the day moving. My exhaustion explained my patchy memory, but not sleepwalking, let alone this new phenomenon of sleeptoasting.

  I wrung the water out of the black toast, tossed the soppy remains into the food compost bucket under the sink, and poured myself a glass of water. Dehydration makes people do funny things.

  It was after midnight, already Sunday. I had to get some restful sleep before taking Zoey shopping to get new room stuff for her sixteenth birthday.

  I wouldn't tell her about this incident because I'd never hear the end of it, but as soon as I got to work at the library on Monday, I'd see if we had any books on sleeptoasting. Or ghosts. Just in case.

  Chapter 5

  “Who was sleeptoasting?”

  My new boss, Kathy Carmichael stared at me like I was a talking raccoon. She was the head librarian at the Wisteria Public Library as well as the Director. She was the one who'd interviewed me and hired me the previous month, and now she looked like she was having some regrets.

  “Never mind,” I said. “I'm sure my sleeptoasting was just a one-time thing, like making a soufflé. Everyone has to try it once to figure out it's just a weirdly eggy cake thing with a bunch of hot air inside.”

  “Soufflé is overrated,” Kathy agreed.

  “You know what's not overrated? Quiche. I made one with onions and I didn't soften them up enough in the frying pan, and it was still good.”

  “Who doesn't love quiche?”

  “I like you already,” I said.

  “You might like me now, but you'll love me after I give you my recipe for asparagus and crispy bacon quiche.” She reached for a fresh sheet of paper and a pen. Her handwriting matched her appearance. Her v's were small and pointy like her nose, and her o's were perfectly round like her glasses.

  We both were sitting in the staff lounge in the north-west corner of the library. Kathy had spent the previous two hours drilling me on the library's computer system while simultaneously filling me in on gossip about their most interesting patrons. I truly did like her already, and I hoped she liked me as much as I liked her, but she seemed guarded, unsure about me. I'd hoped the story about my four-in-the-morning sleeptoasting extravaganza would help us bond, and now we were sharing quiche recipes. Success!

  Kathy folded the recipe into quarters and handed it to me with a quirked eyebrow, like it was a secret note we were passing in class. I glanced around sneakily and tucked it into my bra, which made her snort.

  Kathy's adorable snort-laugh complemented her friendly demeanor. She had medium-brown hair falling in curls, light brown eyes that glowed golden orange under the bright lights, and an oval face with high cheeks that nudged her glasses whenever she got animated and talked faster and faster. The lenses of her glasses were perfect circles, framed in gold with delicate filigree around the hinge connecting the arms. The round glasses gave her an owl-like appearance, and I noticed she enjoyed saying the word who, drawing out the word so it sounded like she was hooting. Whooooo can resist a book with a dog on the cover? Whooooo doesn't love a trashy beach read on vacation?

  As a librarian and directory, Kathy was my boss, but she kept telling me to think of us as coworkers. The patrons were our bosses, and we worked for them.

  And, if we were going to be grumpy, we needed to spare the patrons and get it out in private. For that, there was the Grumpy Corner, a darkened corner of the staff break room that was outfitted with beanbag chairs and big pillows. Any member of staff could go there to chill at any time, even outside of official breaks, without judgment.

  “That's a really good idea,” I said of the Grumpy Corner.

  “Who doesn't need a timeout on occasion? I love being a librarian, but, well, you know.”

  I agreed completely. Being a librarian is a wonderful job, but like all careers, it comes with specific stresses. Patrons expect you to have all the answers, and sometimes you don't. When one thing goes wrong, it can become a cascade. A patron complaining about the homeless gentleman snoring in the science fiction section can lead to your right arm aching all afternoon because the stress makes a repetitive-strain injury—earned from shelving handfuls of heavy tomes—flare up.

  On my first day at the Wisteria Public Library, I couldn't imagine needing to chill in the Grumpy Corner. For a bibliophile like me, the library was heaven on earth, with its tidy, towering shelves and an intriguing split-level layout that encouraged exploration.

  At ten-thirty, Kathy forced me to go on my mid-morning break. I wanted to keep learning the inter-library request system, but she insisted I take my mandatory morning break. After giving me the quiche recipe, she left me to it.

  Alone in the staff lounge, I nibbled through my snack while jotting down a list of items we needed at the house. I finished my list and still had a few minutes left, so I made myself useful by cleaning out the staff refrigerator. I removed the plastic containers holding green-flecked leftovers, chucked the food into the compost bin, and gave everything a quick scrub with hot, soapy water.

  I dried my hands and ran out to the counter to relieve Kathy for her own break.

  She returned a minute later and whispered, “Who threw out my lunch? Who?” Her golden-orange owl-like eyes blinked behind her round glasses.

  “Who?” I winced and thumbed my chest. “That was me. But I swear I only tossed out the old stuff with mold.”

  “You threw out my acorn jelly?” Her voice cracked like she was on the verge of crying.

  “Was it a brown, gelatinous sludge?”

  Kathy sniffed. “My neighbor made it for me.”

  “Does your neighbor not like you very much?” I grinned, waiting for her snort-laugh, but it never came.

  “Whooooo would throw out someone's lunch? And then joke about it? Who?”

  I hung my head. “Just me. I'm so sorry. You can fire me, but please don't hate me. I'll run out now and buy you a whole new lunch. What do you want? Sushi? Pizza? Let me make it up to you.” I looked up at her with my most repentant expression.

  “Never mind,” she said softly, turning away. “You have a patron waiting.”

  I glanced over at the counter. A woman stood there, impatiently tapping her library card on the top of a stack of books. Card-tapping was the height of passive aggressiveness
in a library, but, compared to other service-oriented jobs I'd had over the years, really not so bad.

  After I'd finished checking out the patron's books, I popped my head into the staff lounge.

  Kathy was in the Grumpy Corner with a blanket over her face.

  My heart sunk. So much for my first day.

  Monday had not been without its triumphs. I'd arrived on time and caught on to the library's organizational systems quickly. The patrons I'd met so far were wonderful, and I'd experienced the profound joy of reuniting an older gentleman with a beloved story he'd feared he'd never see again, its title forgotten long before the emotional resonance. With the book in hand, he'd practically skipped out the front door. I'd also introduced some juvenile readers to the perfect new series and seen unbridled excitement on their small faces.

  But all of that felt hollow now that I'd upset my new coworker.

  I wanted to throw myself at her feet and beg forgiveness. If she were my daughter, I'd know exactly what to do. I'd tickle her and wrestle her for the best beanbag chair. But Kathy Carmichael was an adult, a grown woman with between two and five full-grown sons—she'd mentioned them in passing but hadn't gone into detail.

  After some deliberation, I decided to leave Kathy Carmichael alone and win her over the next day—assuming I didn't get fired in the meantime.

  Besides, a new compulsion had taken hold of me. It had nothing to do with the items I'd jotted on my list, but I felt an overwhelming sense of urgency to acquire a very specific item. It felt like a magic spell was physically pulling on my guts, dragging me toward destiny.

  Destiny awaited!

  As soon as I punched out my timecard.

  Chapter 6

  I punched out my timecard at three o'clock. Despite having modern equipment to track books and circulation, the Wisteria Public Library used an old-fashioned, factory-style punchcard system for the librarians' hours.

  The KERCLUNK of the loud stamp was a shock to my system after a day of hushed tones, mouse clicks, and whispering page-turns.

  I gathered my coat and purse, said goodbye to Kathy and my other new coworkers, and walked out the front door.

  After the dry air of the library, the outside world felt moist and breezy, spring's floral scents invigorating me.

  The sense of urgency I'd been feeling for the past few hours doubled in strength. If it got any stronger, it was going to turn into a panic attack. I tapped my toes and looked around. The pretty town of Wisteria was all around me, charming with its old stone buildings and many downtown churches. I'd never seen so many churches in such a relatively small area.

  Were the churches making me jumpy? They'd never made me feel this way in other towns.

  Upon closer examination, what I felt was similar to hunger. I had a powerful craving for something. Fried chicken? Carrot cake? That Malaysian durian fruit that smells like rotten onions and pungent gym socks but tastes so good?

  The feeling, which was near my stomach but not in my stomach, tugged me down the street.

  I'd never experienced anything quite like this compulsion. Well, it did happen once a week back home, when my favorite bakery introduced a new flavor of cupcake. They always did that on Wednesdays, and my stomach quickly learned how to identify Wednesdays.

  This was like the cupcake feeling, but stronger.

  I started walking down the street, curiously following my compulsion.

  As I passed store windows, my reflection across the street kept catching my attention. When I turned to look, though, there was no window. Just people walking, including a woman who had long, light red hair like mine, and a long jacket like mine.

  The scent of leather hit my nostrils, and I knew.

  The precise thing I needed right at that moment was… a new pair of boots. What better way to celebrate my first day of work and not getting fired?

  As luck would have it, I was approaching a charming shoe store. I pulled open the heavy door and went inside.

  The store had wonderful boots, in every heel height and color imaginable. A friendly-looking man with a white mustache said, “We're having a special today, since it's Monday. You can try on every boot in the store.” He grinned to show me he was joking. “That's the special deal we run on days that end in Y.”

  Smiling back, I asked, “Is everyone in Wisteria so delightful?” I pointed to some red-brown boots with dark laces. “I'd love to start with those if you have them in my size, which is—.”

  He cut me off. “Don't tell me! I love guessing.” He waved me over to a bench. “Have a seat, please, and remove those horrendous things.”

  I gave him a mock-indignant look as I started unlacing my shoes. They were black and comfortable, but I couldn't defend them. They really were horrendous, and we both knew it.

  He kneeled before me, lifted one of my feet carefully, and placed it against his forearm. The fitting process was more intimate than I'd expected, but I didn't mind.

  “Interesting,” he said. “You have a foot twin, and she's sitting right behind you.”

  “Foot twin?” I glanced over my shoulder. There was another customer in the store, also trying on boots. I couldn't see her face, but her long hair was the same shade of red as mine.

  The shopkeeper said, “I'll be back in a jiffy with your new favorite boots.”

  When he returned, I discovered he wasn't wrong. The boots were, indeed, my new favorite boots, and the price was very reasonable.

  “Perfect,” I said. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I won't be trying on every pair in the place. I'll take these ones and wear them out.”

  “Of course you will,” he said, a wide grin below his bushy white mustache. “I hope you don't mind me asking, but are you two gorgeous redhead ladies related?”

  The woman sitting on the bench behind me turned. We looked into each other's blue eyes. I felt my eyebrows rising with surprise. The stranger and I had the same coloring, the same shape of faces. She was about fifteen years older than me, but I could see why the storeowner pegged us as being related. The woman with the red hair looked almost identical to my mother.

  Without waiting for an answer, the shopkeeper said, “You must be sisters.”

  “I don't have a sister,” I said, still staring at the woman. She was the one who kept catching my eye from across the street.

  The woman smiled. “But you do have an aunt,” she said.

  I answered, “Sure, but my aunt lives in Florida.”

  She gave me a knowing look. “Oh, Zara. That's just what the rest of the Riddle family likes to believe.”

  She knew my name. I folded one leg under me as I turned around to face her without twisting. I reached out and put my hand on her shoulder to make sure she was solid and not a ghost. She was real. Mom? No, it couldn't be.

  “Aunt Zinnia?”

  My mother's younger sister smiled. “In the flesh.”

  The shopkeeper clapped his hands. “How wonderful! A surprise family reunion happening right here in my store. I knew something was afoot, so to speak, when I noticed you were foot twins. Would you two like me to take your picture?”

  I couldn't stop staring at Aunt Zinnia. She looked so much like my mother, who had passed away only five years earlier. I'd seen my aunt for the first time in a decade, at the funeral, and hadn't seen her again since. In the interim, she had grown to look even more like my mother. Looking into those familiar brown eyes was like staring at a ghost.

  Emotions assaulted me. I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, scream, or put my head between my knees and wait for the nausea to pass. Just when I thought I was going to embarrass myself by exploding into a million sobbing pieces, a wave of tranquility washed over me. Suddenly, I knew exactly what to do.

  “Aunt Zinnia,” I said calmly. “You simply must come for dinner at my house on Friday. We will have rack of lamb, and you can meet my daughter. How about seven o'clock? We'll have cocktails at seven and dinner by eight, like civilized people. Will you be bringing a guest?”


  Zinnia turned away from me, leaned forward over her knees, and began lacing up the boots she was trying on. They were a different style from mine, only ankle-height, but they appeared to be the same size. We really were foot twins.

  “Friday works for me,” she said without looking up. “When did you move to Wisteria?”

  I glanced over at the shopkeeper. He was still grinning and staring, but had moved away to allow some privacy.

  I answered, “What makes you think I'm not here on holidays?”

  “You invited me to dinner at your house. I just assumed that your house was here in Wisteria.”

  “Oh, yes. And I do love the sound of that phrase. My house. Mine. I have a feeling I'm going to be working the phrase my house into every conversation I have for the next year.”

  Zinnia laughed. “You're so much like your mother.” She took a breath and sighed, still leaning over her knees and tying her laces. “I miss her so much.”

  I raised my eyebrows. For someone who was missing my mother so much, my one and only aunt hadn't stayed in touch with her sister back when she was still alive.

  However, sitting on a bench in a shoe store was not the place to dig into the intricacies of Riddle family dynamics. As soon as I got her into my house—my house!—I would hit her with both barrels.

  Whatever happened between her and the rest of the family, it hardly mattered anymore. We were both in the same quaint, not-too-big town, and we were family, and we'd be seeing a lot more of each other.

  Was Zinnia the reason I'd been drawn to the shoe store that day? Did my genes contain tracker devices that alerted me to the presence of relatives? Or had it all been a crazy, wild coincidence?

  I borrowed a pen and paper from the friendly storeowner and handed the address to my aunt.

  “Beacon Street,” she said, frowning at the paper. “This address looks familiar. It's not a red house, is it?”

  “As a matter of fact, the house is a gorgeous shade called Wisconsin Barn Red,” I said. In my head echoed a question. How did I know the house was Wisconsin Barn Red? I was no stranger to making up crap on the spot, but usually I had some awareness of it.