Wardens of Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries - Daybreak Book 1) Read online

  I raised my eyebrow to say, assuming he doesn’t come back to life when the head reattaches.

  He frowned back, as if to say, I don’t know what you’re suggesting, Zara, but I don’t like it.

  Bentley asked Carrot to review a few more details, and then we prepared to leave.

  Bentley handed her an assortment of cards from his pocket. There were cards for a grief counselor, a crime scene cleaner, and a funeral home. Then he handed her some small brochures. The transaction reminded me of the basket of local business advertisements and coupons I’d received in my mailbox shortly after I’d moved to Wisteria. It was like a welcome wagon package, except instead of welcome to your new home, it meant welcome to Bereavement, population one.

  Chapter 12

  We hadn’t been in the car for very long before Bentley said, “I really wasn’t profiling the boyfriend in the way she thought I was.”

  “I believe you.”

  “We were talking about big game hunting, and safaris, and Adebayo is an African surname, I believe. Let’s see.” He used voice commands on his in-car computer to do a search on the name.

  A robotic voice served up the answer. “Adebayo is a Yoruba name. Yoruba names are used by the Yoruba people and Yoruba language-speaking individuals in Benin, Togo, and Nigeria.”

  Bentley turned to me and whispered, “These voice-activated internet searches are eerily good these days.”

  I whispered back, “Why are you whispering?”

  “Because I don’t want her to know I’m giving her a compliment.”

  “Why not? You should try buttering her up. Women love compliments.”

  He gave me a serious look. “Zara, it’s a computer.”

  “Then why are you whispering?”

  He waved a hand at me, pressed the button on the display again, and asked the computer, “What does the first name Sefu mean? S-E-F-U.”

  The robotic female voice replied, “Sefu is a Swahili name for boys. It means sword.”

  “Sword!” I exclaimed, bouncing up and down in my seat. “You heard that, right? Your robot voice has just solved the case for us.” I patted the dashboard. “Thank you, robot voice. I shall dub thee Lady Sherlock.”

  Bentley narrowed his eyes and shot me a look. “How much of the tattoo parlor’s candy did you consume, anyway?”

  “Not that much.”

  “Zara, stick out your tongue.”

  I did, blowing a little air so it made a funny sound.

  “Your tongue is completely red,” he said.

  “That’s the color of tongues, silly.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  I flipped down the sun visor and checked my tongue in the tiny mirror. It was stained by the dye in red candy. “My tongue has been worse colors,” I said nonchalantly. I flipped the visor up again with a chunky snap. “More importantly, we have a very solid lead on a suspect. This Sefu guy.”

  “Ms. Greyson claims her boyfriend was with her all night. He has an alibi.”

  “They might have done it together.”

  “What’s the motivation?”

  “I don’t know yet, but come on. The guy’s first name means sword.”

  “Ah, yes. I forgot that important new section of the criminal code where we prosecute people for crimes based on their names.”

  I settled back in the passenger seat and crossed my arms. “Maybe I did eat too much candy.” I shook my head. “Wow. Talk about a phrase nobody ever expected to hear coming from my lips. What a strange day this has been.”

  We drove for a while in silence.

  “I take pride in not being prejudiced,” Bentley said. Apparently, he hadn’t let go of his hurt feelings over being accused of racial profiling.

  “I already said I believe you.”

  “Most of us in law enforcement are just trying to do our jobs. It’s a few bad apples who ruin it for everyone. Well, more than a few, but even so, I’m not one of them.”

  I held both hands up. “You’re preaching to the choir.” I thumbed my chest. “If you’re talking about getting lumped in with bad apples, look over here at the genuine witch sitting in your car. The genuine practitioner of witcher-i-doo.”

  “Witcher-i-doo? Don’t you mean voodoo?”

  “It’s something I picked up from Vincent Wick.” I gasped. “Speaking of that particular devil, did they tell you all about Wick when you got your new level of clearance?”

  He gave me a cagey look. “In what sense?”

  “In the sense that he’s got hidden cameras all over town, and he spies on people from his underground lair by the dump. He’s a wizard of sorts. A tech wizard. No magic abilities, as far as I know. What did you hear?”

  “I’ve heard that Wick is an independent contractor who occasionally assists in investigations, which is why his,” he steadied the steering wheel with his elbow so he could make air quotes, “underground lair continues to operate. His role is similar to that of a criminal informant.”

  “Is Wick a criminal? He’s creepy as all get-out, but that doesn’t make him a criminal, does it?”

  “Several of his intelligence gathering methods are in contradiction with modern privacy laws.”

  “But he’s friends with my aunt, so he can’t be that bad. And he helped me out when a family member of mine was hurt.”

  Bentley whipped his head to look at me. “Zoey was hurt? What happened?”

  “Not Zoey. It was my dad. He was...” I waved a hand. “Long story.” I looked out the window. “Where are we going again?”

  “The coffee shop.”

  “Already? I thought you wanted to get more information before you interrogated Maisy Nix about her driving habits.”

  “I do, and I will, but we have something already to talk to her about.” He patted his pocket, where he’d tucked away the evidence bag containing the blank coffee cup. “We can ask her what she wrote on the first cup that got him so irate.”

  “Under what pretext? Maybe you should tell me more of your plan so I don’t mess it up.”

  “Just follow my lead.” He shot me a serious look. “And don’t let on that Ishmael’s dead.”

  “I won’t say a peep. Not even if I see his ghost standing there with his own head tucked under his armpit.”

  * * *

  We parked in front of Dreamland Coffee and both looked up at the sign.

  The coffee shop had a logo featuring a cuddly woodland creature—probably a chipmunk but possibly a marmot—wearing a striped sleeping cap and resting comfortably on a cloud. When I’d first moved to Wisteria, I’d mistaken Dreamland for a mattress shop based on the logo. Over the past few months, and no small number of mint mochas, the name and logo no longer seemed odd. And was it really that strange? The logo for Starbucks is a terrifying sea monster. Er, make that a sultry mermaid.

  The interior of Dreamland could have had an austere, bare-bones feel, thanks to its tall gray walls of bare cinder blocks, gritty concrete floor, and exposed metal rafters. The light fixtures were the style used in warehouses a hundred years ago. But it didn’t feel bare-bones at all. The tables were generously wide and made of honey-hued solid oak. The chairs and couches were all plush, upholstered in sunset shades of red, orange, and gold. Tall, arched windows flooded the space with sunshine, and were softened by curtain panels of gold crushed velvet, held back with the sort of chunky tasseled tiebacks my aunt might have used for a belt.

  Maisy Nix was standing at the front counter.

  “That’s her,” I whispered to Bentley. I could see by the set of his jaw that he already knew that. I wondered what sort of criminal cases she’d been associated with that had roused the suspicion of the detective.

  Maisy Nix was equal parts tall and gorgeous, like an Amazonian warrior in a comic book. She stood over six feet tall, and though I couldn’t see her feet behind the counter, I could tell by the length of her slender neck and her long arms that none of the height was coming from high heels. She had medium-brown skin, eyes the
color of black coffee, and shoulder-length ebony hair, glossy and straight. Her face was angular, with a strong jaw that didn’t detract from her beauty. The sharp planes of her face were balanced by a small nose and pretty lips that were ever so slightly too large on the top.

  Under her orange Dreamland Coffee apron, she wore a white blouse tucked into gray trousers. The blouse wasn’t the polyester-cotton blend of a uniform, but a silk blend with round mother-of-pearl buttons. The apron itself looked freshly ironed and spotless.

  She covered her mouth, yawning as we approached. “Sorry about that,” she said sleepily. She had a light Hispanic accent. “I had a late night,” she explained.

  A late night? A late night of... murder?

  She smiled at me. “The usual for you? Mint mocha?”

  “Perfect,” I said, even though my cravings for that particular beverage had been fading since my possession by a mint-mocha-loving ghost. I would have preferred an iced tea given the weather, but we were there to get information. I couldn’t stray from my usual behavior and tip her off.

  She looked pointedly at Bentley and stifled a second yawn. “And for you, Detective?” She said the word Detective with a teasing tone I recognized. It was the same playful tone I’d used myself on Bentley, all those times I’d bumped into him around town. He’d had it coming, the way he was always insinuating that I was up to something nefarious. Such as witchcraft. Was that also Maisy’s secret? My aunt always sidestepped questions about a local coven, but she’d never gone so far as to tell me we were the only witches in town.

  I studied Maisy’s face closely, and then I let my eyes unfocus and studied her... the opposite of closely. Seeing things on the magical plane was like trying to catch movement in your peripheral vision. You had to try not to try. It was one of the many intriguing contradictions of magic. As my gaze shifted past normal reality, the colors in my vision lost saturation and gained vibration. Maisy was still there, majestic and striking despite her tiredness. I didn’t see anything unusual. If Maisy had been a gorgon, I would be able to see her hair snakes, but there were none. No devil horns or halo, either.

  At my side, where my vision was blurry and my hearing was dampened, Bentley leaned forward and ordered a plain black coffee. Then he paid for both of our drinks. He asked no questions about the woman’s car, or her whereabouts last night. I kept relaxing my vision and being open to seeing something. Maisy’s sleek, ebony hair only revealed that she used an excellent conditioner. Since Bentley wasn’t making any moves, I guessed it was time for me to roll out the slightly bigger guns.

  When Maisy took her eyes off us and turned her tall, strong body toward the espresso machine to make our beverages, I quickly made a circle and cast the threat detection spell.

  The instant I finished the phrase, Maisy jerked her head up and stared right at me. Her black-coffee eyes were like two bottomless wells.

  “What was that?” The depth of her eyes pulled at me. “I didn’t catch what you said just now, Zaaaaara.” She dragged out my name as though we had a long and complicated personal history together, and not at all like a coffee shop owner who’d memorized the names of her regular customers.

  She’d heard my silent Witch Tongue! I was thrown off by her reaction, but I was even more thrown off by the result of the spell. It splashed back at me in a cold wave of failure, like the time I’d brushed my teeth while driving and then attempted to spit out the car window only to have it come back on my face. Grimacing, I took a step back. My backfiring spell had been both startling and unpleasant.

  Had Maisy countered my spell herself? Or was there a magical ward over the coffee shop? Or was there something wrong with me? Ishmael Greyson’s ghost had walked through my body that morning. Had he shorted out something inside me?

  Maisy, meanwhile, was patiently waiting for an explanation about what I’d “said.” Two angular eyebrows arched above those coffee-black eyes.

  I coughed delicately into my fist. “Nothing,” I said. “It must have been my stomach making a noise.”

  Maisy nodded, pressed a button on the espresso contraption, and began grinding the beans. I was relieved by the cover of noisy bean grinding. Plus, it did smell awfully good.

  I glanced over at Bentley. Well?

  He avoided eye contact with me, looking down as he lifted one foot to rest casually on the iron pipe that ran horizontally along the base of the counter. The pipe was like the brass footrails found in English pubs, except black and pockmarked.

  Maisy finished making our drinks and set the paper takeout cups on the counter. “Lids are by the cream and sugar,” she said.

  Bentley didn’t touch his.

  Maisy asked, “Would you like a carrying tray, Detective?”

  “No need,” I answered for him. “We’ve got four hands between the two of us.”

  I didn’t grab the cups just yet. Stalling for time, I rubbed my palms on my hips thoroughly, as though preparing to grab the high bar at a gymnastics competition. Bentley wasn’t making his move yet, so I kept rubbing my hands. The gray wool of my suit started to heat up from the friction. I slowed down before I accidentally shot off a spell.

  Finally, the detective spoke. “You didn’t write our names on the paper cups,” he remarked dispassionately.

  Maisy gave him a forced, fake smile. Her front teeth were very long, but mostly hidden by her large upper lip until she bared them this way. “Would you like me to write your name on the cup, Detective?”

  “I suppose not.” He peered down into the cup of plain black coffee but didn’t pick it up. “I’m just curious about something.”

  “Oh?” She looked back and forth between me and Bentley excitedly, as though our presence was the most interesting thing that had happened that day. Now her eyes were bright and lively, and there was no longer any sign of a yawn on her lips.

  “Do tell,” she said. “Or I could guess, if you give me a hint. I love games.” Her gaze came to rest on me. “Games of all kinds,” she said enigmatically.

  My cheeks felt hot. She was so beautiful. Was she flirting with me? Or trying to tell me something? She’d heard my Witch Tongue. What else did she know about me?

  Bentley picked up his cup slowly, turned his body away from the counter, paused as though having second thoughts, and turned back again. In a casual, off-handed tone, he said, “I’m just wondering what it was you wrote on Ishmael Greyson’s cup last night that had him so rattled.”

  The tall woman stopped breathing, and for some reason, I felt it in my own chest. My airway seemed to pinch, though I was still breathing. I watched her as the tendons in her long, slender neck stood out. Then she stretched upward, becoming half an inch taller, and the tendons became less pronounced. The hollow at the center of her collarbone grew deeper, and darkness pooled within the depression like an abandoned well.

  She licked her lips and asked, “Fishtail didn’t report me to the police for that bit of fun, now, did he?”

  Bentley almost smiled. He had her right where he wanted her. “Ms. Nix, I assure you I’m asking out of curiosity. It’s not the concern of the Wisteria Police Department what you did or did not write on a customer’s takeout cup. Unless, of course, it was a hate crime, or a threat of some sort.”

  She turned and walked away hurriedly. Was she running? She moved quickly on those long legs.

  Get her, my brain yelled. She’s getting away! I was yelling at myself more than Bentley. I wanted to get her. My fingertips crackled as my magic readied itself.

  Bentley, however, didn’t even twitch. I felt like kicking him, or zapping him with one of my newest spells. I had recently mastered a biting spell that mimicked being bit on the buttocks by a toothy animal. Before Aunt Zinnia would teach it to me, she made me swear up and down to never, ever, ever use it on her. But I could use it on Bentley.

  Maisy had been running, but she didn’t run far. She stopped at a recycling bin full of paper cups and dug in. I remembered Carrot Greyson, digging through her wastebasket.
None of this would be happening if people were more environmentally conscious and brought their own reusable mugs to coffee shops, I thought. Not that I ever remembered my takeout mug.

  “Got it,” Maisy said. She skipped back to us with an empty cup held forward like a trophy. “This is the cup that Fishtail, I mean Ishmael, wouldn’t take. You’ll see it’s not a hate crime or a threat.”

  Written neatly in black felt pen was the phrase CARROT’S BROTHER. Maisy set it on the counter between us.

  I nearly laughed. “That’s it?” I asked. “He was all torn up about being identified as his sister’s brother?”

  Maisy shot me a conspiratorial grin. “I know, right? Some men! They’re so terrified of us having any type of recognition or power they don’t.” Her right eye twitched in what seemed like a canceled wink.

  “You enjoyed teasing him,” Bentley said. “You knew that description would bother him, which is why you wrote it on his cup.”

  Maisy laughed and held out both hands, wrists together, over the top of the counter. “Guilty as charged. You’d better cuff me and take me away.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said crisply.

  Maisy pulled back her hands, placed them on her hips, and cocked her head. “What’s this all about?” She directed the question at me, specifically. “Are you two working together on something?”

  I lifted my takeout cup. “Just driving in a car, going for coffee, like normal people do.”

  She arched one black, angular eyebrow. “Sounds like my kind of fun.” She picked up a bar cloth and wiped some coffee grinds from the counter into a metal-ringed hole.

  “One more thing,” Bentley said, taking the previous day’s used paper cup gingerly. “Where were you and your vehicle last night?”

  Maisy stiffened. Staring straight ahead without moving, she said, “I was at the other Dreamland location, roasting coffee beans. I was there until my niece came by at dawn to pick me up.” She yawned again, though it looked to me like a fake one. “I only got a few hours’ sleep before coming in here. Excuse my yawns.”

  “Your niece had your car last night?” He repeated the make of the car and its license plate number.