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

  “Do you want to switch rooms? There are more to choose from. I want you to be happy. We moved here as much for you as for me. We both wanted this.”

  “Mom, stop being such a mom.” She turned her head. “Shh.”

  Something thumped somewhere in the house.

  Her pale blue eyes widened with fright. “The ghost,” she breathed. “I told you so, and I take back what I said about my eyes playing tricks on me. We're being haunted.”

  “Maybe it's a friendly ghost,” I said with a shrug.

  She shook her head and pulled out her phone. She frowned at the screen for a few minutes before announcing, “This website says we need to go into every room and clap and sing really loud, to scare the ghost away. It's probably the old lady who used to live here. What if she doesn't know she's dead? What if she climbs into bed with me and screams because she thinks I'm the ghost?”

  I couldn't stop smirking at her paranoia. “Did you say we should sing? But people adore my singing. That won't drive anyone away.”

  My daughter rolled her eyes.

  Whatever it was that made the first noise, it thumped again.

  Zoey shrieked and threw herself into my arms.

  It thumped again.

  A chill ran up my spine. For the first time in my adulthood, I considered the idea that ghosts were real. And I immediately felt ashamed of myself.

  This mess was all my fault. I'd been so impulsive, taking a job in a new town and buying a house all on the same day. Everything had felt right at the time, and I'd trusted my instincts, but now I had a ghost.

  What next? I was a new homeowner, but I'd wisely held some money back from the deposit to cover maintenance surprises. If the old pipes broke, I'd call a plumber. And if ghosts were real, like really-really real, then by the same logic there'd have to be a whole industry of people around to deal with them. I'd simply consult the internet and call in a spiritual medium, or a priest, or an exorcist.

  There was another thump, followed by a crash. It sounded like dishes breaking.

  “The ghost is in the den now,” Zoey said, her voice and body quivering.

  “Which room is the den?”

  “The one with the smaller of the two fireplaces,” she said.

  “We have two fireplaces?”

  The crash was followed by rustling noises. Zoey buried her head in my shoulder and whimpered.

  “Maybe a cat or a wild animal climbed in a window,” I said. “Ghosts aren't real.”

  “It could be a zombie,” she said.

  “Now you're just going through monsters willy nilly. Next you'll say Frankenstein's Monster is in the den.”

  “Don't let it eat our brains,” she said with a giggle. At least she was laughing through her fears. Having a good sense of humor helps in almost any situation.

  With my daughter attached to me, I grabbed a broom and walked us both out of the kitchen and toward the den, which was a cozy room I planned to turn into a home library.

  The den was empty.

  There were no zombies or monsters or animals present, but the welcome gifts from the real estate agent had fallen off the fireplace mantle. The leafy fern was now a pile of shattered clay, dirt, and smashed greenery. Next to it lay the shredded remains of a welcome basket and scented bath products.

  Zoey crouched over the mess and sniffed. “Smells like vetiver oil,” she said. In answer to my unspoken question she explained, “Vetiver is a grass from India.”

  I sniffed, smelling something partway between sandalwood and citronella, deep and woody, but also sweet, like a high-end cologne. As I breathed deeply, a calm feeling washed over me. A vision of neighbor Chet flashed in my mind. He wasn't wearing a shirt in this vision. Whatever this vetiver was, I liked it.

  Zoey gathered the bath products, examining them closely. “None of these are open,” she said. “Where's the smell coming from?”

  “Your butt,” I said with a laugh.

  Your butt was one of our favorite answers to dumb questions.

  Where are my keys? Check your butt.

  Am I forgetting anything? You forgot your butt.

  What time are you coming home? Ask your butt.

  In a serious tone, Zoey said, “The ghost smashed our welcome gifts.”

  “There's no such thing as ghosts. Look at the slope on this mantle.” I patted the wood. “Every time those big mover guys went up and down the stairs, they sent vibrations through the house until this stuff slid off.”

  Since I had a broom in my hands anyway, I began sweeping the dirt into a pile.

  “But we were in the kitchen just now, not on the stairs,” she said. “Someone or something pushed these things off the ledge.”

  “But why?”

  She blinked at me, her expression forlorn. “The message is pretty clear. These were welcome gifts, and someone literally destroyed them. We are not welcome here. We are unwanted and unwelcome.”

  “This isn't about a ghost,” I said. “You're projecting your fears about moving here because you'd rather repress your fear than admit you're scared.”

  She finished gathering the bath products and stood to face me. She'd grown recently, and we were nearly eye-to-eye.

  She stated simply, “Someone doesn't want us here.” She turned and went to the den's small window. She pressed her forehead against the glass and said, “Look!”

  I joined her at the window.

  At the edge of our backyard was a figure clad in black. The figure ducked under the fence separating our yard from the neighbor's.

  “It's that stupid boy,” Zoey said angrily. “The one who was peeping at me in my room. He must have gotten inside the house and smashed our things.”

  I growled some non-repeatable words.

  “Mom, calm down. Don't get all lightning-bolts-and-brimstone.”

  Too late. The day had been long and full of cardboard boxes and whining—much of it mine—but we'd survived. Our new life awaited. Nobody, and I mean nobody, was going to stand in our way, especially not an ill-behaved child.

  I muttered a few more choice words, turned on my heel, and marched straight out the front door into the twilight of the spring evening. The sweet scent of cherry blossoms smelled sickly. The air crackled around me.

  I marched over to the blue door of the Moore Residence, my broom still clutched in one hand and my daughter right behind me.

  Chapter 3

  I banged on the neighbor's door, yelling, “Open this door right now! I know you're in there!”

  Zoey tugged on my arm. “Mom, it was just smelly soap and a potted plant.”

  “That lovely fern was a symbol. A gesture of welcoming. Now it's smashed to pieces, and I won't stand for it. We Riddle women are strong and we fight for ourselves. If we don't nip this problem in the bud, one day we'll be the ones smashed to pieces at the hands of that sociopath.”

  “He's just a little boy.”

  I turned to her. “And before they grew up, so were history's worst dictators.”

  The door creaked open. A man said, “Are you comparing my sweet boy to Hitler and Stalin?”

  “Yes, I am. He snuck into my new house and smashed…” I blinked at the man standing in the doorway. I'd been expecting someone handsome with green eyes, and while this guy was handsome and did have green eyes, he was also well into his seventies. “You're not Chet.”

  The man pinched the wrinkle of skin on the bridge of his nose. “What's Chet done now?”

  “Not Chet. It was a little boy.” I held my hand four feet above the porch's floor. “About this high. Dressed in black, like a ninja, with dark hair falling over his forehead. He was in my house less than five minutes ago, smashing things and making both of us feel generally unwelcome.”

  The man dropped his hand from his face and gave me a curious look. “Are you two the chumps who bought the old Vander Zalm house?”

  Zoey chose this moment to join the cause. “Hey! Who are you calling chumps?”

  “That's us,” I sai
d with a forced smile. “But I'm the only one who's on the hook to pay for the mortgage, so that makes me the chump.”

  The man said, “Whatever you paid, it was too much.”

  And then he slammed the door shut between us.

  Zoey gave me her told-you-so look.

  I gave her my don't-make-things-worse-for-your-mother look.

  I knocked on the door again. This time nobody answered, which was probably for the best, since I was still clutching the broom and thinking about hitting people with it.

  The curtains on the window next to the door twitched, and a pale, round face appeared. The little boy had his eyes crossed and his tongue sticking out.

  Zoey yelled, “You little creep! You don't scare us!”

  He responded by jamming a finger up one nostril and using his other hand to make a rude gesture.

  I smacked the glass with the broom and made a scary face right back at him. His eyes widened and he ran away from the window.

  Zoey said, “Good job, Mom. Now, let's dial your crazy down and go home to our delicious chopped salad.”

  As we left the porch of the blue house, I said, “Forget the salad. Let's order pizza.”

  “But we don't know which place has the best pizza. We know nothing about this town. I'll go online and do some research, read all the reviews.”

  “Good idea. We can play Dueling Laptops. I'll look into the history of our house and look up the old owner's name and see what she was all about.”

  “You mean… see if she died inside the house and became a vengeful ghost?”

  I used the broom in my hands to sweep some dirt off our front stairs. “Our house isn't haunted by anything except the boxes that haven't been opened since our previous move.”

  “Maybe we shouldn't unpack completely,” she said.

  I paused my sweeping to look into her eyes, which were as blue and calm as a summer day at sea. People always told me my daughter had an old soul. I chalked it up to the wide set of her eyes, and how she was continually five minutes ahead of you in any conversation, anticipating what you'd say next and answering questions you hadn't asked.

  “We'll get everything unpacked,” she said. “Don't be a worry-wart. No matter what happens, we're definitely here to stay. We'll string fairy lights in the backyard and sleep on the lawn during the summer solstice every year.”

  Her words and her certainty sent a shiver through me. Maybe she was an old soul, after all. What did that make me? I finished sweeping the porch and ushered her back into the house.

  Five minutes later, we were rejoicing in the miracle of an unsecured wireless network somewhere along the street. Our own internet would be hooked up on Monday, but in the meantime, we were in business.

  We each took one side of our comfy sofa, legs interweaved and computers on our laps like warm, square cats.

  “Let the Laptop Duel begin,” she said. “One hour?”

  “You really think you can get the town's best pizza to our front door within sixty minutes?”

  “Easy,” she said. “Will you have a full report on the history of this house and its previous owners?”

  “Like it's my job,” I said with a grin. “And… go!”

  The typing began.

  After a minute, I reached for my tea. I bumped the spoon, which clattered to the floor.

  Without looking up, Zoey said, “Company's coming for dinner.”

  “Are you psychic now?”

  “You dropped a spoon. That means we'll get a visitor.” She rubbed her temples and hummed theatrically. “I'm getting a vision now, it's all coming into focus. I can see him! It's a boy! The visitor is a little boy with black hair.”

  I shuddered. “Let's hope that doesn't happen again. You know I've never spanked you, or any other deserving kid, and I'm proud of my spanking-free track record, but if that kid breaks one more thing in my house, I might have to get old-fashioned on his tushie.”

  Zoey waved her hands like a mystical fortune-teller and dramatically intoned, “The ninja boy's destiny is out of our hands. Ooo-ooo-oooh! It's all up to the moo-oo-oon goddess now.”

  “Just order the pizza,” I said with a sigh.

  Chapter 4

  Fifty-two minutes later, the doorbell chimed.

  “Doorbell,” I said.

  My daughter raced to the door and flung it open. I followed behind her, opening my wallet.

  We found a skinny teenager delivering our pizza, and also our new neighbor Chet Moore, gripping the little dark-haired boy by the collar.

  Zoey glared at the big-eyed boy and said, “You dare darken our doorway, pestilence?”

  The boy stuck out his tongue.

  Zoey jerked forward, reaching for his tongue, but he recoiled quickly.

  “Too slow,” he taunted. “And I'm not pestilence. That's what you are. I was here first.”

  I grabbed Zoey by the shoulder and hauled her back. “Kids,” I said to Chet. “Every day is like a trip to the zoo with no admission fee.”

  Chet nodded and gave the boy, who looked about ten years old, a stern look.

  The pizza delivery guy cleared his throat. I paid the teen for the pizza and said to our neighbors, “Come in and partake of pizza delights. Zoey claims this is the best in town, but we need an expert's opinion.”

  “We don't want to impose,” Chet said. “Grampa Don told me what happened today. I only brought Corvin by to apologize.”

  The boy—Corvin—squirmed like a fish on a hook. “Sorry,” he croaked.

  “Corvin's very sorry,” Chet added. “I'll pay for the damages. How much?”

  “Don't worry about the money,” I said. “But I do love a good heartfelt apology. Come in off the porch and join us for food and drinks. We're having lime cordial in martini glasses because that's all the glassware we've unpacked so far.”

  The little boy jerked away from Chet's grip on his collar. He flew into the house like an opportunistic housefly on the first day of spring, following Zoey and the pizza.

  As they neared the dining room, I heard Zoey say, “Corvin? That's such an interesting name. It means raven.”

  “I know that,” spat the boy. “I'm not a dummy. I'm a genius. I'm smarter than you because I'm smarter than everyone.”

  “You think you're smarter than me?” Zoey laughed and started quizzing him. “How big is the moon in relation to the earth?”

  “Twenty-seven percent.”

  “That's a bit high.”

  “Dummy! You didn't specify,” he said. “By diameter, the moon is twenty-seven percent compared to earth, but by volume it's two percent.”

  “Very good. Here, have some pizza.” A few seconds passed. “Hey! Leave some for the rest of us.”

  While the two of them quizzed each other and fought over the pizza, I smiled sweetly at Chet. We were still near the front door, where he was examining the carved wood table we'd positioned in the hallway to receive keys and mail. He nodded appreciatively at the dovetail joints visible inside the drawers. I did always admire a man who had an eye for detail and craftsmanship.

  “Your son is a clever boy,” I said.

  “He doesn't get it from me.”

  “What does your wife do?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Lucky lady,” I said with a laugh.

  “She's dead.” He quickly added, “No need to apologize. It was many years ago, before I moved in next door with my father. Don was supposed to help me raise Corvin to be a well-adjusted and perfectly normal boy. As you can see, that didn't exactly work out as planned.”

  “Boys are tough,” I said. “So are girls, but I got lucky. People say Zoey has an old soul.”

  Chet finished examining the entry table and glanced down the hall, toward the den. “May I? It's been a while since I've been inside this house.”

  “Be my guest.”

  He led the way to the den, where he frowned at the dirt and mess on the floor. I apologized for the disaster and started using the broom and dustpan
to clean it up.

  “Don't apologize.” He knelt near my feet and gathered stray pottery from the corners of the room. “You're not the one who did this.”

  “To be fair, we didn't see your son break these things. We only saw him running away from the house.”

  “Corvin's supposed to be out of his destructive phase,” Chet said. “He's relapsed. The therapist says I need to be firm, but not overreact. How's a parent supposed to do that? We've been trying to come up with a fair punishment, but he keeps lying. He says it wasn't him. He says a ghost knocked over your welcome gifts.”

  “Ask him how he'd know about this so-called ghost if he wasn't inside the house. You can't see into this room from your place.”

  He went to the window and sighed as he leaned on the windowsill.

  “Corvin isn't like other kids,” he said.

  “What's wrong with him?”

  He turned to face me, his green eyes blazing, his expression one of pain. “I try to focus on what's right with him. He's still a person.”

  “I've offended you,” I said. “I'm very sorry.”

  His expression softened. “No, don't be. We came here to apologize to you, and you're not wrong about Corvin. He's not normal.”

  I grabbed his arm playfully. “Honey, there's something wrong with all of us, and thank the stars, because it'd be a dull world if we weren't all a bit bent!”

  He looked down at my hand on his arm as though he'd never seen a hand before. Was he one of those people with an aversion to being touched? Earlier in the day, when we'd been shaking hands, he had yanked his away suddenly. What would happen if I kept holding his arm? Would he melt?

  I studied his green eyes while they stayed trained on my hand. He had long, thick, dark eyelashes. Approximately one in fifty eyelashes was a lighter, silver hue. I began counting his light eyelashes. I'd gotten to twelve when he cleared his throat and gently pulled his arm from my grasp.

  “We should check on our kids,” he said.

  I cocked my head. “I hear laughter. That's a good sign. You only have to worry when they're quiet.”

  “Corvin is very quiet.”

  “Maybe they'll become friends. Zoey always wanted a little brother, but as time went on and I got used to being on my own, that became unlikely. Not impossible, because everything works fine down there—better than fine—but you know what it's like being a busy single parent.”