Ghost Mysteries & Sassy Witches (Cozy Mystery Multi-Novel Anthology) Read online

  So, before the guests arrived, I reconfigured the table to seat nine, magically moving all the chairs and place settings without lifting a finger.

  Zoey saw me and said, “Show-off.” She leaned over the table and carefully straightened the silverware, which I'd shifted in a haphazard manner. “Your accuracy could use some work,” she commented. “Have you been practicing writing on a chalkboard like Auntie Z suggested?”

  “Boring,” I answered.

  She muttered under her breath, “Magic is totally wasted on you.”

  She stretched to reach across the table, revealing a gap between her jeans and shirt where the top of her underwear was visible. I twitched one finger and gave her a hands-free wedgie. As repayment for her sass. And also just because.

  She howled indignantly, “You're the worst mother in the world!”

  “Second worst,” I corrected. “Remember, your grandmother kicked me out of the house because I chose to give birth to you. She gets the crown title.”

  Zoey spluttered, “You… Uh…” She put her hands on her hips and glowered at me furiously. She was justifiably upset with me for the wedgie, but when I'd mentioned the sacrifices I'd made to give her life, I'd taken the wind out of her sails. I wasn't proud of my devious motherly manipulations, but I sure was good at it.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Ding-dong,” I said. “That'll be the doorbell.”

  She continued glaring at me with teen angst. “You're the ding-dong.”

  “According to Aunt Zinnia, we're both ding-dongs.”

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Doorbell,” I said.

  She gave me one big huff before turning and going to answer the door. Sometimes it was more trouble than it was worth to get her to answer the door. Doorbell duty was one of her official jobs as a member of the household. When she was younger, I'd read a book about parenting, and a couple of tips had stuck with me. One of them was about empowering your offspring to carve out a place in the world by giving them ownership of a specific task. It was also a great way to trick her into doing chores.

  On second thought, I probably should have aspired to something grander than doorbell duty.

  Our housewarming party had begun.

  The Moores arrived first, and soon the conversation flowed. We would have such a wonderful mix of guys and gals, young and old. You'd have thought an expert entertainer or two had orchestrated everything!

  Handsome Chet did not show up in his furry shifter form, but he did wear a dark gray suit and a yellow tie featuring foxes hiding amongst trees in the woods. I couldn't take my eyes off the tie, which seemed to be a flirty reference to our adventure in the forest.

  We hadn't interacted much since the attack on Tuesday. He still seemed sore about my suspicions, and I was annoyed that he wouldn't tell me more about his employer. We'd left the supernatural stuff unspoken and only chatted a few times over the fence about the weather and this party.

  He caught me staring at his tie and said, “You like my foxy tie.”

  “I like your foxy everything.” I smiled at him, feeling unsteady when he locked those handsome green eyes on mine.

  “I'm not half as foxy as you,” he said.

  I felt my cheeks flush at his flirtation. This playful interaction felt wonderful. Apparently he had forgiven me for my paranoia earlier in the week. It must have upset him when I suggested his son was behind the attack, but he'd had time to realize it wasn't a crazy idea and I wasn't his enemy. Our relationship was evolving, deepening with trust.

  Or maybe nothing at all had changed, except the introduction of a glass or two of wine, which was also fine by me.

  The eldest of the Moore family, Don, began negotiating for forbidden foods as soon as he arrived. “Is that ham? I can smell honey-glazed ham. Two slices?” He held up two fingers and looked pleadingly at Chet.

  “The slices are quite thin,” I said.

  Chet smiled again, catching me in the tractor beam of his glittering green eyes. “If Zara wants to give you two thin slices, then it's fine with me.” He winked at me.

  I winked right back before turning to make sure Corvin also felt welcome.

  “So glad you could make it all the way over here,” I said to the boy.

  Corvin looked me right in the eyes and said, “We live next door, dummy.”

  I gave him the plastic smile that I used to let Zoey know she was treading on thin ice. “Aren't you adorable,” I said. “How old are you? Five?”

  Corvin narrowed his eyes at me. “I'm ten! You're a dummy!”

  Don nudged his grandson. “Don't call people names.”

  “Drinks!” Zoey announced. “Who wants a fancy drink that may or may not come from a juicebox?”

  While Corvin and Don were distracted by Zoey taking orders for fancy drinks, I sidled up to Chet and whispered, “How's the investigation going?”

  “Not bad,” he said. “How are things at the library?”

  “I've been researching secret organizations. Blink twice if you're a member of the Illuminati.”

  He didn't blink.

  “Freemasons.” No blink. “Skull and Bones? The Rosicrucians? Knights Templar? Golden Cross? Druids? Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn?”

  He kept staring into my eyes, unwavering. “You're quite the librarian.”

  I continued, “Bilderberg Group? The Ancient Arabic Order of the Nobles of the Mystic Shrine?”

  “I'm not a Shriner, but they do excellent work for charities. I have made a few donations.”

  “I'll keep looking,” I said. “Librarians don't give up easily.”

  He looked down at the cute foxes on his yellow tie and chuckled.

  “Can you tell me anything about your investigation?” I asked. “She is my ghost, after all.”

  He glanced around to make sure nobody was watching us. “Since you asked so nicely, I can tell you I've been looking into Winona Vander Zalm's former lovers as well as any other society ladies she made enemies with over the years. She was a well-liked woman, but she'd also lived long enough to cross a few people.”

  “Your family must have loved her, for letting your mother give birth to you in this house.” I glanced down at the floor beneath our feet. “Was it right about here?”

  He stepped in closer to me. I could feel, through my elegant black party dress, the warmth radiating from Chet's body.

  With a low, gruff tone, he said, “You tell me. Are you feeling anything special about this part of the room?”

  I batted my eyelashes, temporarily speechless. I did feel something special, but it was all coming from Chet, not some patch of hardwood. We continued to stare at each other. Was his face moving closer to mine? Was I imagining things, or was he about to kiss me?

  The doorbell rang.

  “Doorbell,” I said.

  He grinned. “Doorbell.”

  I pointed over my shoulder and stepped back. “That's not my job, but I'm going to answer the door anyway.”

  “Sure,” he said, glancing around. “I'll check on Corvin. If I can find him.”

  I excused myself and ran to the door. It was my boss, Kathy, and my coworker, Frank.

  While I greeted them and took their jackets, I heard Chet bark, “Corvin! You've got to be more careful!”

  “It's just juice,” I heard Zoey say. “I'll take him to the washroom and get him cleaned up.”

  Corvin whined, “Stop touching me! I don't want a big sister.”

  Meanwhile, at the doorway, Frank caught my eye and raised his pink eyebrows. “Family drama?”

  “Neighbor drama,” I said, and I explained how my offspring and Chet's offspring had gotten off to a rocky start.

  Kathy shook her head. “Boys,” she said. “That's the Moore boy? He's an odd one, but cute, with those big eyes.”

  We all listened as my daughter patiently responded to Corvin, “How about a friend? You should know, a friend who's older than you can be very useful, especially when you want certain thin
gs that you can't get yourself.”

  “Like what?” he asked. I could hear in his voice that Corvin was softening toward my daughter. I crossed my fingers and hoped they could get along. Then I quickly uncrossed my fingers and cleared my mind before I accidentally cast a spell I knew nothing about.

  Zoey lowered her voice, and I couldn't hear the rest of their conversation.

  I clapped my hands and refocused on my librarian friends. “Drinks?”

  Frank said, “I simply must get a full tour of the house before dinner, or I won't be able to sit still.” He wrinkled his nose apologetically. “I'd be trying to see through your walls and visualize the floorplan.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Welcome to my house. Please elbow me if I'm saying my house too much. It's my new favorite phrase.” I finished hanging up their jackets, and then led them up the stairs to the second floor. Both made ooh-aah sounds as they admired the bedrooms and the spacious linen closet.

  When we got to the master bathroom, Kathy ran her hands over the rolled edge of the cast iron tub. “Whooooo doesn't love a clawfoot tub? Who?”

  “My daughter,” I said with a laugh. “That's who. She says it has weird chicken feet.”

  Frank turned away from us to admire his pink-flamingo hair in the room's ornately-framed mirror. “My sister has weird chicken feet,” he said. “And I don't mean on her antique bathtub. But at least the feet go with her weird chicken legs just fine.”

  Kathy pushed her round glasses up her small, sharp, owl-like nose. “Zara, I adore what you've done with the place. I'm glad you kept some of Winona's window coverings. She certainly loved her garish colors, but it all goes beautifully with your furnishings.”

  I turned to her, surprised. “You've been here before?”

  “A time or two,” she said.

  “You knew Winona?”

  “Who didn't know Winona? She had her spectacular hands in everything, including fundraisers for the library.” She beckoned for us to lean in, and whispered, “I was right here, in this house, only a month before she died.”

  Frank made a strangled noise and side-stepped toward the bathroom door. He caught my eye and asked, “Is it true she died in that tub?” His eyes bulged as he glanced at the clawfoot antique.

  Something took hold of me. Winona herself. Without warning, she slipped over me like a silk shawl. I tipped my head back and let out a bold laugh.

  The two of them stared at me in silence. Kathy's owl eyes grew rounder. Frank's shock of pink hair looked more shocked than usual.

  I simply smiled, my face smooth and relaxed. Winona's voice came from my voicebox. “Darlings, let us not speak of sad and dreary things on this beautiful evening,” I said. “Back downstairs with us, to make merry and quicken the night!”

  They followed my lead without argument.

  We arrived back on the main floor to find Dorothy Tibbits peering in the front door.

  Dorothy called out, “Hello? Is this Zara Riddle's intimate little dinner party or have I wandered into some groovy, exclusive night club?”

  I waved Dorothy in and introduced her to the librarians. Dorothy hadn't brought her binoculars, but she did have a sheaf of business cards she gave out freely.

  Frank looked her up and down, “Oh, Ms. Tibbits and I know each other,” he said coolly.

  “So nice to see you again,” Kathy said, shaking the realtor's hand. “How do you know Zara?”

  Dorothy turned her head from side to side, shaking her long, brown pigtails. Thanks to her Botox, her face was expressionless, but she seemed lost for words, so I jumped in.

  “Dorothy sold me the house,” I explained. “She's a terrible real estate agent!” I tipped my head back and laughed the way I had upstairs.

  Kathy, Frank, and Dorothy stared at me with shocked, delighted, and blank expressions respectively.

  What had possessed me to insult my realtor? My three guests waited for an explanation, but I couldn't exactly tell them a ghost was partying in my voicebox. And I couldn't deny what I'd said. Dorothy was a terrible real estate agent. A dented can of Spam could have done a better job selling the Red Witch House.

  Dorothy kept giving me her blank look. “I'm terrible? Me?”

  I turned to the librarians and explained, “Dorothy is terrible because this house is perfect, so I'll never, ever, ever sell it, and she'll never get another commission from me.” I grinned. “Get it?”

  Frank nodded slowly. “This house won't be sold again, at least not until you die. Then she'll swoop in like a vulture.” He grinned, revealing teeth so white they were blue. “Won't you, Dorothy?”

  Dorothy let out a strange cackle. “Oh, Frank, you're so naughty!” She cackled again and punched him on the arm. Hard. Twice.

  “It looks like everyone's here,” I said, ushering them toward the dining room.

  The doorbell rang. Who could it be? Everyone I knew was already there.

  I called over my shoulder, “We don't want any!”

  The doorbell let out a double ding-dong.

  Zoey nearly knocked me over in her haste. She yanked open the door and squealed, “Auntie Z!”

  Oops. I'd forgotten that Zinnia was our ninth guest. How had I forgotten?

  As I took her coat and brought my aunt into the dining room to meet the others, I sensed my spirit friend becoming agitated. Winona Vander Zalm stopped making me speak and pulled away, back into the darkest corners.

  If I had to guess what the ghost was up to, I'd say she was sulking. What was she upset about? She'd wanted to entertain, and now I was in the midst of the largest and most elaborate party I'd ever thrown. This was how she showed her gratitude?

  Honestly, some ghosts. Worse than teenagers.

  Chapter 18

  “Zara Riddle, you are one heck of an entertainer,” Chet said as he helped gather empty wine glasses.

  I surveyed the wreckage of a successful dinner party. The previous four hours had passed like a dream, despite the grumpy spirit of Winona Vander Zalm, who'd been sulking in the corners of my mind.

  Most of the guests were gone. The children had excused themselves after dessert, preferring movies in the living room over grown-up conversation concerning library circulation and the price of local real estate. Both Corvin and Zoey were asleep on the sofas now. Chet had noted with a groan that the kid was getting heavier and heavier each time he fell asleep somewhere other than his bed. It was only the four of us in the house now. Or five, including my lurking ghost friend.

  “You can leave those dishes for the morning,” I said. “There's no rule about having to clean up the night of the party.”

  “There should be a rule,” he said with a chuckle. “Especially if you live in a creaky old house with gaps big enough for mice to squeeze through.”

  “Are you saying I have mice?” I held my hands up to my cheeks, feigning shock. “I may have a ghost or two, but I don't have mice—that I know of.”

  Chet bumped over the wine glass he was reaching for. It fell to the floor, where it shattered. He looked up, his green eyes glowing like backlit emeralds.

  “I'm so sorry,” he said. “Mind if I blame the ghost?”

  “Let me get the broom. I'll be right back.”

  I left to retrieve the broom and dustpan from the kitchen, where I took a moment to chug down a glass of water and catch up with my thoughts. Chet already knew I was a witch, plus I knew he was a shifter and some sort of X-Files detective. He knew all about my ghost, too. Why be coy?

  With the broom in hand, I returned to the dining room. “What's the deal with brooms?” I asked. “Why are they so closely associated with witches? I seriously doubt they're the best objects for flying on. Why not something with a seat wider than an inch? Like a bicycle?”

  “They flew on a bicycle in the movie E.T.”

  I shook my fist. “Darn. Don't you hate it when you think of something original and awesome, but someone beat you to it?”

  He took the broom from my hands and swept up th
e broken wineglass.

  “Brooms are better for sweeping than for flying,” he said. “Besides, witches these days prefer airplanes. There's an in-flight snack and you arrive at your destination looking fabulous.” He got down on one knee and shot me a sexy look as he swept the pieces into the dustpan. “Now, are you going to tell me what your ghost has been up to, or do we have to open the one bottle of wine that survived the party?”

  “Open the wine,” I said.

  He jumped up, grabbed the bottle, and had the cork out in ten seconds flat.

  “How'd you do that?” I asked, incredulous. “I didn't even see the corkscrew.”

  He waggled his dark eyebrows. “Shifters don't need corkscrews.” He held up his right pointer finger. A thick, whirling claw was retracting before my eyes. It disappeared into his nail bed, and the cork fell off with a pop. He tossed the cork high in the air and caught it behind his back without taking his eyes off me.

  I held both hands to my chest. “Be still my beating heart! He lives right next door, and he's a human bottle opener!” I closed my eyes and tilted up my face, whispering, “Thank you for answering my prayers.”

  Chet cracked up laughing. He found two clean glasses and poured us our drinks. With a sigh, he said, “It feels so good to be my true self around someone. Keeping my shifter status to myself is a bummer sometimes.”

  I took my glass of pink wine and held it aloft for a toast. It was a sweet dessert rosé—the perfect sugary pick-me-up for the end of an evening.

  “A toast to being our true selves,” I said.

  “Our true selves,” he murmured in agreement. “Now, tell me more about this ghost of yours.”

  “It's Winona Vander Zalm,” I said.

  He nodded. “Tell me something I don't know. Any messages from beyond?”

  I sipped my wine, licked my lips, and began telling him things he didn't already know. I kept stopping to ask him questions, to get him talking, but he was a conversational ninja. I found myself telling him about everything that had happened over the past two weeks, from throwing out Kathy's acorn jelly on my first day at the library to giving my daughter a magical wedgie. I told him how I'd never cooked anything fancier than a crock pot stew before the spirit of Winona Vander Zalm attached herself to me and turned me into a supernatural party witch. I even told him about Zinnia's witch status and the twinkling light display she'd made the night I was electrocuted by the toaster.