[PDF Download] 3-book series bundle: wisteria witches, wicked wisteria, wisteria wonders - cozy witc

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3-Book Series Bundle: Wisteria

Witches, Wicked Wisteria, Wisteria Wonders - Cozy Witch Mysteries Second Edition Angela Pepper

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WISTERIA WITCHES

A NOVEL

ANGELA PEPPER

| SECOND EDITION |

WWW ANGELAPEPPER COM

CHAPTER 1

The real estate agent didn't say anything about the house coming with a ghost. You really should get a discount for something like that. Some people would be willing to pay extra to get a genuine ghost, but I'm not one of those people. I already have enough going on with my supernatural powers.

My name is Zara Riddle, and I am a witch. Shocker, right? Tell me about it! I only just found out myself.

I spent the first thirty-two years of my life not knowing I was a witch. Everything changed the day I moved across the country to a quaint little town I'd never heard of before: Wisteria.

It was a bright spring day, and my daughter and I had just arrived at our new home. I stood on the sidewalk in front of the property, grinning like a ding-dong. The home was a gorgeous three-story Victorian Gothic, painted red. The pale purple and pink blossoms of the wisteria vines twisting along the front porch accented the bright gingerbread detail on the adorable house that was now mine, mine, mine.

Here I was, trading my big city life for modest dreams, such as getting to know my neighbors. With the world tilting toward conflict and chaos, and so much despair on the evening news, it felt natural to seek refuge somewhere smaller. Somewhere people got involved, and looked out for each other. But not too small for a good bakery. I'm impulsive, not crazy.

"Mom, close your mouth and stop staring," my daughter said as she pinched my arm. "For the millionth time, you're not dreaming. Now move your butt and help me with the boxes before these moving truck pirates charge us for overtime."

"Where are the guys now?"

"Using the washroom," she said. "The one guy keeps gushing about the claw-foot tub. What's the big deal? It's an old tub with weird chicken feet." She wrinkled her f nose.

"People pay extra for tubs with weird chicken feet."

She scowled. "He'd better not be taking a bath up there and charging us for his time."

"So much concern!" I ruffled her bright red hair. My daughter was usually optimistic, yet she hadn't said anything positive about her new house. "Stop worrying about the movers and tell me which bedroom you picked."

She ducked away with annoyance and smoothed her hair. "Let's get the moving done first. We need to get everything inside the house before I go to school."

"Zoey, it's Saturday. Unless things are very unconventional here in Wisteria, you don't start at your new school until Monday."

She rolled her eyes the way only a teenager talking to her exasperating mother can. I'd been seeing the whites of her eyes so much, I'd nearly forgotten the irises were hazel, the same as mine.

"Mo-o-om," she moaned, dragging it out to three syllables. "I told you. Since we don't have a car anymore, I need to walk to the school today and figure out the best route so I'm not late on Monday."

"Okay, gotcha," I said, walking around to the back of the moving truck. "I should count my blessings that I'm the owner of the only sixteen-year-old who actually wants to go to school."

She jumped up into the truck and started handing me boxes. "I'm not sixteen until tomorrow, and you're not my owner." Another eyeroll but at least she was smiling.

"People who have pets are called owners, and you're like a very smart pet. You're certainly not a regular child. I swear, sixteen years ago you waltzed your way out of my womb, shook hands with the taxi driver who delivered you, and corrected my pronunciation of the name of the hospital we didn't make it to."

Zoey stopped grabbing boxes inside the moving truck, put her elbows on a stack, and rested her chin on her hands. Flatly, she said, "Gee, Mom, tell me the story about the night I was born. I'll start you off. It was eight o'clock, and the double-length pre-finale episode of Wicked Wives had just started on TV."

"You've heard this story before?" I batted my eyelashes innocently.

She smirked and continued the tale. "You were on the internet, liveblogging your reactions to the episode as it aired, and adding in color commentary about your labor pains. At first you were joking, but then you started having real contractions. Your fans were arguing about whether you should go to the hospital or fill a kiddie pool with water and go for it at home with your webcams running."

"Don't stop now," I said. "This is where it gets fun. My webcam broadcast started going viral as the contractions got closer together."

Zoey's grin suddenly disappeared. She stared over my head, at something or someone behind me.

A man with a rich, deep voice said, "You're Zara the Camgirl?"

I turned around slowly. "I'm just Zara now. My Camgirl days are over."

"Chet Twenty-one," the man said. He had eyes. I assumed. And possibly a face. A body would have been holding everything up, probably. All I saw was eyes. The greenest of green, with glints of silver and gold.

"You have the nicest green eyes," I said. "Who are you?"

"I'm Chet Moore. I live next door to you, in the blue house with the goat on the roof. Chet Twenty-one was my internet alias back in the day. I'm sure you don't remember me. You had hundreds of regulars who'd post on your blog."

I had a cardboard box in my arms, so I jabbed my chin over my shoulder in the direction of Zoey. "That charming redhead is not my sister,"

I said. "She's my daughter. She says whenever I meet a cute guy, I always pass her off as my younger sister, but it's not true. I hardly ever do that. Besides, if you followed my blog, you saw me go into labor with her, so you'd never believe me anyway."

He grinned. He had teeth. Eyes and also teeth. Just like a human being! Wow. This guy's looks were making me stupid. What was this crushing sensation I felt in my chest? Was this why people called it a crush? My pulse was racing. My mouth went dry. I couldn't stop staring at the tall, dark-haired man.

I'd never laid eyes on him before, and yet he was familiar. Underneath my rising temperature and tingling nerves, there was a sense of comfort. Of safety. We weren't just meeting today. We were reuniting. Together again after a painful absence.

The man who'd ensnared me so easily said, "You're staring at me. Is there something on my face?"

I forced myself to blink before my eyeballs seized up completely. There's nothing on your face, I joked in my head. Unless you'd like some of my face on your face? Like my lips, for example?

I bit back my thoughts and struggled to compose myself. Chet Moore was just a regular person, not some long-lost lover, and I had to stop acting like a ding-dong.

"Nope," I said with a smile. "It's just that you're cuter than a ladybug picnic. I'd shake your hand like a normal neighbor, but I've got a box in my arms."

He smiled back. He found me charming, which made him twice as cute. He looked down at the label on the cardboard box I was gripping like a life preserver. "A box full of XL PMS sweatpants, if the label on the front is to be believed."

"Once a month, I balloon up to three times my size," I told him solemnly.

"At least you're prepared."

"That's a joke," I said. "I put funny labels on all the boxes to make moving more fun." I shook the box, which made a non-sweatpants-like clattering sound. "These are actually pots and pans."

"So, the box your daughter is holding is not full of Nun-Chuks and Nun Habits?"

I glanced back at Zoey, who looked embarrassed, just as I'd expected. Even if I wasn't saying outrageous things to strangers, she usually got tense waiting for the interaction to inevitably turn mortifying. Teenagers were so easily mortified. That was what made having one so much fun.

I turned back to Chet, still smiling. "No, but you could use the contents to make those things. It's craft supplies, mostly yarn and a selection of glues. Plus those googly eyes that turn any object into a Disney character."

He took the wackiness without any visible sign of surprise. "You should fit right in here on Beacon Street," he said. "Welcome to the neighborhood. We should probably shake hands now."

I jiggled the box in my arms. "I'll be done moving in about an hour."

He took my box from me, shuffled it to one strong-looking arm, and shook my hand.

"It's official," he said. "I now pronounce us neighbors."

"Neighbors," I repeated. As our hands touched, I got a flash of us together on a beach. My throat felt thick with emotion. For some strange reason, I added, "Til death do us part."

He abruptly jerked his hand away from mine.

From behind me, in the back of the moving truck, Zoey groaned, "Oh, Mom."

I'd gone too far. I quickly replayed what I'd said. Neighbors. Til death do us part. What had gotten into me?

"Sorry," I said to Chet. "That was in poor taste, considering your previous neighbor just passed away. I didn't know her, but I'm sure she was a lovely woman."

"It's fine," he said with a casual shrug. "Let me give you a hand with these last boxes."

"We Riddle women can do it ourselves. We're tougher than we look, and we've done everything for ourselves for sixteen years. Plus there are two burly guys around here somewhere, and they're supposed to be helping. I'm not paying them the big bucks to defile my new bathrooms."

"I insist," Chet said. "Many hands lighten the load. You'll be saving me time because I won't need to hit the gym today." He set the box on the edge of the moving truck and reached up to offer his hand to Zoey.

"Chet Moore," he said. "Let me wish you an early happy birthday, Zoey. It seems like only yesterday I saw you smashing your very first chocolate cake with your baby fists."

"That was on the internet," she said coolly. "You don't know me." She didn't shake his hand. Apparently, the man's knee-melting, heart-crushing, stupidity inducing charms only worked on adult women.

"Fair enough," he said with a good-natured smile. "Stack a couple more boxes on here, would you?"

She did, and he left for the front door without another word.

I turned and gave my daughter The Look. Could she try a little harder to make a good first impression in our new town? Could she extend to her mother the tiniest bit of credit that the was a good decision? Didn't she see how hard I was trying to improve both of our lives? Couldn't she say just one nice thing about our new house? I squinted hard, putting all of these things into The Look.

She responded by rolling her eyes while sighing.

The Look could be magical at times, but it could only do so much. We would have to talk this through, the way we usually did.

I shrugged and nodded for her to keep handing me boxes from the moving truck.

Zoey was a great kid, and she'd come around eventually. Moving is hard for people, even when it's a positive move. I chose to enjoy the sunshine and the day. Our new life lay before us, the pages fresh and unwritten, awaiting discovery like a brand-new journal.

What I couldn't have known at the time was that my future wasn't exactly blank. Other people in Wisteria had made elaborate plans that involved me, and soon I would be swept up in events so strange I couldn't have imagined them in my weirdest dreams.

And it would all start in just a few short hours. My sixteen-year-old daughter would inform me that our lovely new house-with its gingerbread trim, wisteria-lined porch, and cast iron claw-foot tub-had a ghost. Plus I would discover, in the most shocking way possible, that I, Zara Riddle, am a witch.

CHAPTER 2

"I totally heard a ghost upstairs in the attic," Zoey said as she entered the kitchen at six o'clock that night.

"Very funny," I said.

"The opposite of funny," she said gravely. "There's a ghost in this otherwise-perfect house."

"So, you admit that this house is perfect?" I set down the head of lettuce I'd been holding, and struck my finger in the air. "You can't take it back. You said something positive. The streak of doubt has been broken."

"Mom, I said the house would be perfect, except for the ghost. But it really is haunted." She sighed. "I guess we'll have to move back home and return to our old life."

"Already? But we just said goodbye to everyone, and went to all the going-away parties. Mrs. Hutchins made us her famous tuna-noodle casserole, and then she prayed for us. The woman prayed. She wished us a bountiful new life full of blessings. We can't go back and tell Mrs. Hutchins her prayers didn't work. We'll just have to stay here in Wisteria to avoid breaking the sweet old woman's heart."

Zoey sighed and rested her elbows on the kitchen island. "I did hear something, but maybe it was just this house getting used to us. Why are old buildings so creaky?"

"Because the metal parts contract more than the wood, so the nails, pipes, and air ducts rub against the wood."

She squinted her hazel eyes at me. "You're such a librarian."

"I've been called worse." I winked at her.

She gazed up at the ceiling of the kitchen. "Wouldn't it be cool if there was a ghost? I've always wanted something special to happen to me, to

make me less boring."

I stopped my food preparation and circled around the kitchen island to give her a hug. She grunted and tried to escape, but I wrestled her into my embrace using my motherly brute strength.

Once she'd calmed down, I kissed the top of her bright red head. "You're not boring, Zoey. You excel at everything you try. You're brilliant, and you're the best daughter in the whole universe."

She made a face. "You're only saying that to boost my confidence and make me feel secure and happy."

"Stop decoding my motherhood skills and just enjoy them."

She snuggled in and hugged me back.

I inhaled deeply. Was this the moment I'd been waiting for? Two days earlier, when the movers had loaded everything but our toothbrushes into a big, white truck, I'd been hit with a blast of anxiety unlike anything I'd experienced before. The feeling was sharp, like the point of a pin, threatening to burst my protective bubble of optimism and hope. In the two days since, I'd felt as if I'd been holding my breath, waiting to exhale once I felt safe.

Was this it? The moment I could relax?

I felt my muscles tightening, squeezing me with a fresh, new wave of anxiety. I hugged my daughter even tighter. She made a strangled noise, and then squeaked, "Can't breathe."

I threw open my arms and spun her out of my embrace like a ballerina. She twirled and giggled.

I waved my arms around and did a silly dance to keep her laughing. My daughter was nearly sixteen, but when I made her laugh, I saw the sweet little kid who started a plant-watering business so she could spy in other people's apartments and report back about what "normal" people did.

Normal people did things like bake tuna-noodle casserole and host dinner parties.

That was it. I could alleviate my moving-related anxiety by hosting a celebration.

I stopped dancing and made the announcement. "Let's throw a housewarming party!"

She twisted her lips to the side and gave me a dubious look. "For all of the many people we know in this town?"

"Good point. We need more prospects."

"I might make a new friend or two at school next week, but I won't bring them over unless you promise not to embarrass me."

"I never make promises I have no intention of keeping."

She groaned.

I rolled a ripe tomato across the kitchen island at her. "Chop that," I said. "Don't slice it or wedge it. We're making chopped salad for dinner, and everything has to be chopped."

"Since when do we eat salad?" She squinted at me. "This house might not be haunted, but I think it does have magical powers. We've only been living here a few hours, and you're like a whole different person. A person who makes salad."

"We're getting a fresh start," I said. "We can completely reinvent ourselves. I'll be the mom who goes to yoga classes and makes salads instead of licking the icing off ten-day-old cupcakes. Why don't you try something new, too? Dye your hair cobalt blue and be the new freaky kid at your school. What's the dress code there? You can borrow my leather bustier and those sexy boots you won't let me wear in public."

"Gross," she said.

"Live a little," I said.

She wrinkled her nose and started chopping the tomato in the Riddle Family tradition-two hands on the knife handle, safely away from the blade. Both of us suffered from a vegetable-slicing phobia. She caught it from me, and I got it from TV and movies. Outside of cooking shows, every time someone on-screen is shown chopping vegetables, they cut themselves. Okay, not every time, but often enough that whenever you see the knife and carrots, you tense up because you know something's coming, right?

Zoey finished chop-smashing the tomato. "I think I'll borrow your boots," she said. "But everything else is going to be normal."

There was that word again. Normal. Why couldn't my daughter give up on being normal the way I had, and learn to embrace being weird?

"Make a bunch of new friends so they can come to the housewarming party," I said. "Speaking of new friends, I wonder what our Realtor, Dorothy Tibbits, is up to?"

"Something nutty, I'm sure. She's a bit cuckoo."

"You're so judgmental. Sure, the woman dresses up like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, but does wearing a blue pinafore make one cuckoo?"

"Not on its own, but carrying business paperwork in a wicker basket is not something a normal person does. Especially not a woman who's over sixty."

"She might be sixty, but her face is barely forty," I said. The woman did have the confusing appearance of someone attempting to look younger.

Zoey gave me a blank stare. I'd bought the house on a solo trip to Wisteria, so she'd only met the real estate agent in person earlier that day on the front porch. When Dorothy Tibbits pulled the house keys out of her wicker basket, Zoey had taken a cautious step away from the zanily costumed woman and refused to say two words to her.

If Zoey was going to reject people who were unusual, how long would it take before she abandoned me? I had to hope it was just a phase she was going through.

"We should give Dorothy Tibbits a chance," I said. "Sure, she smells like incense and camping gear, and she talks to your eyebrows rather than looking you in the eyes, and she's just terrible at selling houses, but she seems nice enough."

"Super," Zoey said with the exact opposite of enthusiasm. "Dorothy and her Botox face can be your new best friend."

Lightly, I added, "Or maybe Chet Moore, from next door. He's not horrible."

She narrowed her eyes at me. "Turbo-flirter."

I pretended to be hurt by the label of Turbo-flirter. Can I help it if I don't like small talk? What's the point in talking about nothing when you can dig into something good? I love asking people about something random yet specific, such as their bowling experience. You can learn a lot about someone if you throw out a good question or two.

Zoey said, "I can see the appeal of Mr. Tall Dark and Green Eyes, but isn't he too normal for you? He was wearing chinos. He looked like a catalog model."

I hadn't actually noticed his clothes. "The man's got a goat on his roof."

"But not a real goat. It's just a decoration on a weather-vane. Besides, the inside of his house is colossally normal. I can see right in through his windows."

"Have you been spying on our new neighbors?"

"They started it," she protested. "There's a little boy with dark hair and big eyes. He was watching me from his window the whole time I was

unpacking my bedroom. The way the houses are lined up, he can see right in. I felt like a monkey in the zoo."

"Do you want to switch rooms with me? I want you to be happy. We moved here as much for you as for me."

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

Something thumped somewhere inside the house. It sounded a lot bigger than expanding nails or air ducts rubbing against wood. It sounded like trouble.

Zoey's pale hazel eyes widened. "The ghost," she breathed. "I told you so. We're being haunted."

"It's probably a friendly ghost," I said with a shrug.

She shook her head and pulled out her phone. She tapped away, frowning at the screen for a few minutes before announcing, "This website says we can get rid of the ghost."

"Is it expensive? Can we use that white chalky stuff that keeps out slugs and silverfish?"

She ignored my questions and kept reading. "We need to go into every room and clap and sing really loud, to scare the ghost away. The key is making more noises." She glanced up at the ceiling. "It's probably the old lady who used to live here. Do you think she died inside the house?"

"Not until you mentioned it."

"What if she doesn't know she's dead? What if she climbs into bed with me tonight, and screams because she thinks I'm the ghost?"

I'd been getting the creeps from the conversation, but imagining a ghost screaming in fright at my daughter made me smirk. "Did you say we should sing?" I shook my head. "That won't work. People adore my singing. That won't drive anyone away. But you could play some of your favorite music."

My daughter gave me another blank look.

Something in the house thumped again. Whatever it was that made the first noise, it was getting more insistent.

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.

My anxiety escalated the thought into a whirling panic.

We were being haunted, and it was all my fault. My bad decisions were catching up with me. I'd been impulsive, taking a job in a new town and buying a house immediately rather than renting and taking things slow. I had been so sure of myself. I'd felt there was a larger entity guiding me toward some great destiny.

I'd trusted that everything would turn out for the best, but now I had a ghost.

What next?

I was as broke as any first-time 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. If a tree got diseased, I'd call an arborist. And if ghosts were 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 Beetle Juice.

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

"My good china," I said, my hand over my heart. It was a lie. We didn't have any fine china, let alone good stuff.

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

"Uh, 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 through an open window," I said. "It's not a ghost, because 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 terror. Having a good sense of humor helps in almost any situation.

With my daughter clinging 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. No zombies or stray cats.

But there was a mess. The welcome gifts we'd been given by the real estate agent had fallen off the fireplace mantle. The leafy fern, which hadn't stood much chance of survival even in the best of circumstances, was now a pile of smashed fronds atop dirt and shattered pottery. Next to the dirty mess lay the shredded remains of a welcome basket and scented bath products.

Zoey crouched over the mess and sniffed. "Smells like vetiver oil."

I raised an eyebrow.

She explained, "Vetiver is a grass from India. The scent is supposed to be grounding."

"It smells like a hippie dipped in lemonade."

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."

She made a hmm noise, unconvinced but considering.

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

"But we were both in the kitchen, not on the stairs," she said. "Someone pushed these things off the ledge."

"Why would someone do that?"

She blinked at me, her hazel eyes looking exhausted. "These were welcome gifts, and someone literally destroyed them. The message is pretty clear. We are not welcome here. We are unwanted and unwelcome."

"This isn't about a ghost," I said, still sweeping the dirt toward a corner. "You're projecting your fears about moving here onto some imaginary ghost 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.

I asked, "What's really bothering you?"

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!" She pointed to our yard.

I joined her at the window and looked.

At the edge of our backyard was a slim figure clad in black. The figure climbed over 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. I think he must have gotten inside the house and smashed our things. The nerve!"

I growled some non-repeatable words. I was having a hard enough time getting my daughter settled in without having to deal with a saboteur. I growled some more, this time about torture devices.

Zoey said, "Mom, calm down. Don't get all lightning-bolts-andbrimstone. He's just a bratty kid."

Too late. The day had been long and full of cardboard boxes and whining-some 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 illbehaved 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 the wisteria blossoms on the porch hit me like a potion. I fantasized about grabbing the kid and holding him upside down over a bubbling cauldron. The air seemed to crackle with blue sparks around me.

I marched over to the door of the Moore Residence. My daughter ran along right behind me. My hair was a mess, I was wearing the only other clothes I'd unpacked so far—a weird black dress I used as a night shirt, and I clutched in one hand the straw-bristled broom I'd been using to clean up

the mess. As I banged on the door of Chet's house, I couldn't have looked more like a mad witch if I'd tried.

CHAPTER 3

With the broom in one hand, I used the other to bang on the neighbor's door.

To make it wildly clear I meant business, I yelled, "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."

Through clenched teeth, I replied tersely, "That lovely fern was a symbol. A gesture of welcoming."

"We should get some food into you," she said sagely. "What's gotten into you today? Are you so hungry it's turned into hangry?"

With effort, I unclenched my teeth. Something had gotten into me. I felt a bit like something huge and terrifying, with big, scary tentacles, was trying to jump out of me and swallow everything into a gaping chasm of a hellmouth. If that was hangry, then maybe I was.

She glanced at the door. "We can deal with him another time."

"Don't be so sure of that. 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."

She smirked. "He's just a little boy."

My daughter was right, but my pulse was still racing. "Sure, he's just a little boy now. But before they grew up, so were all of history's worst dictators."

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

"Yes, I am. Your sweet boy snuck into my new house and smashed…" I trailed off and blinked at the man standing in the doorway. I'd been

expecting someone handsome with green eyes, and while this guy fit the description, he was also well into his grandfather years.

"You're not Chet," I said.

The older 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 inside 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 speak up. "Hey! Who are you calling chumps?"

"That's us," I said with a forced smile. "But this one is a minor dependent. I'm the one who's on the hook 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 clenched her hands into fists and shook one at him. "You creepy little brat. You don't scare us."

The boy 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 stepped off the porch, I said, "Forget the salad. I'm having fantasies about turning day to eternal night and consuming entire cities. Is that normal, or am I so far beyond hangry that I'm in some new, universedestroying state of mind?"

"We wouldn't want to cause an apocalypse," she said wisely. "To be safe, we should order pizza."

"But we don't know which place in Wisteria has the best pizza. We know nothing about this town, except that they have a ridiculously well stocked zoo for a population of this size."

We climbed the steps to our own porch, and both stopped for a moment to admire the dangling wisteria blossoms. Zoey stood up on her tiptoes and gave them a sniff.

She asked, "What's up with the zoo, anyway? I mean, it's not big enough to be world famous, but it does seem awfully large. And parts of it are blurred out on the aerial view maps on the internet. Actually, entire sections of the town are blurred out."

I put my free hand on my hip and stared into the round face and hazel eyes that were a mirror of mine. "You got me," I said with a smile. "This town is part of a huge conspiracy, and there are top-secret organizations here, running underground research facilities, doing science experiments, and manipulating the space-time continuum."

"Figures," she said. "But with all that going on, there should be plenty of amazing takeout options." She quirked an eyebrow. "Mad scientists don't have time to cook dinner."

"You're pretty wise for someone who's only sixteen minus a day. That must be why people are always telling me you have an old soul."

She wrinkled her nose. "I don't like people talking about the age of my soul."

My stomach made a very loud growl. "That's ominous," I said.

She gave the pale purple wisteria strung across the front of the porch one more sniff before turning and opening our front door.

"Come on," she said. "Let's order pizza before your stomach brings on the End of Days."

"Don't worry about my stomach," I joked. "It's the sanity-shredding tentacles you have to look out for." I paused at the threshold. "Speaking of losing all grip on reality and succumbing to despair, I don't know which box we packed the TV remote in, so we'll have to unpack all of them."

"That was a dirty trick," she said.

"The dirtiest of all, because I unwittingly played it on myself."

We went inside, where we rejoiced in the miracle of finding 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 and ordered the pizza.

After a few minutes, I said, "If you're going to the kitchen anyway, I could use a cup of tea."

She gave me a playful scowl, but she did get up and make us two mugs of tea with honey to keep my stomach grumblings from deafening us before the pizza arrived.

As I was reaching for my tea, I bumped the spoon, which clattered to the floor.

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

"You think? Are you psychic now?"

"You dropped a spoon. That's an omen. I was reading all about these things on that website about witchcraft. Dropping a spoon means we'll get a visitor." She rubbed her temples and closed her eyes. "A dark, mysterious visitor who brings foreboding."

"You mean the pizza delivery guy? He'd better not bring any foreboding. I specifically asked for pizza only."

Her eyes flashed open suddenly, and for an instant they weren't hazel. Both irises were as black as the wing of a raven. "Wicked," she said with a guttural smack. "Wicked."

"Wicked? Zoey, what are you talking about?"

She blinked, and her eyes were hazel again. "Huh?"

I started to explain to her what she'd done but stopped myself. The black eyes had to have been a trick of the light, or a symptom of her exhaustion. It had been a long day for both of us. Even so, I sipped my tea and kept one eye on the front door, uneasily awaiting the unnamed visitor.

CHAPTER 4

The doorbell chimed.

"Doorbell," I said.

My daughter raised her eyebrow at me. "And?"

"We talked about this. Now that we have the pleasure of owning a doorbell and a front door, it's your job to answer it."

"Okay," she said amiably. She jumped up from the couch, raced to the door, and flung it open. I followed behind her, opening my wallet.

We found a skinny twenty-something girl holding our pizza. Standing behind her was our new neighbor Chet Moore, gripping a small, dark-haired boy by the collar.

Zoey leaned to the side to look around the delivery girl, and glared at the big-eyed boy. She spoke with an accusatory hiss. "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 girl cleared her throat. I paid her for the pizza plus a tip. As she left, I realized I'd never had a meal delivered by a female before.

Things were different here in Wisteria. Safer, it seemed.

The neighbors were still standing on the porch. I waved for them to join us inside. "Come in and partake of pizza delights. The internet says this is the best kind 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 said. "I'll pay for the damage to whatever he broke. How much?"

"Don't worry about the money," I said. "But I do love a good heartfelt apology. I'll accept your apology if you come inside and join us. It's just pizza, plus 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, followed by Zoey with 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. 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, Corvin."

"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 kids quizzed each other and fought over the pizza in the dining room, I smiled sweetly at Chet. We stood 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. He had an eye for detail and craftsmanship.

"Your son is a clever boy," I said.

"Corvin? 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."

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DUKE OF LANCASTER’S OWN YEOMANRY (“A” SQUADRON)

Major H. L. Bibby.

Major D. H. Bates, M.C.

ROYAL ARTILLERY

C.

Brig.-Gen. A. D’A. King, C.B., C.M.G., D.S.O.

Brig.-Gen. F. W. H. Walshe, C.M.G., D.S.O., A.D.C.

B M

Major L. W. La T. Cockraft, D.S.O.

Major P. R. Mitchell, D.S.O.

Captain F. E. Morgan.

S C

Captain W. T. Highet, M.C.

Captain E. Nuttall.

210 BRIGADE

Lt.-Col. T. Frankish, T.D.

Lt.-Col. A. Birtwistle, C.B., C.M.G., D.S.O., T.D.

Lt.-Col. D. J. Mason, D.S.O., T.D.

211 BRIGADE

Col. C. E. Walker, D.S.O., T.D.

Lt.-Col. E. J. Inches, D.S.O., T.D.

Lt.-Col. F. G. Crompton.

ROYAL ENGINEERS

Lt.-Col. C. E. Newton.

C.

Lt.-Col. S. L. Tennant, T.D.

Lt.-Col. E. N. Mozley, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. D. S. MacInnes, C.M.G., D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. R. E. B. Pratt, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. A. T. Shakespear, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. J. G. Riddick, D.S.O.

125 INFANTRY BRIGADE

C.

Brig.-Gen. H. C. Frith, C.B.

Brig.-Gen. H. Fargus, C.B., C.M.G., D.S.O.

B M

Major A. J. Allardyce.

Captain I. M. Smith, D.S.O., M.C.

Captain A. E. Lawrence, M.C.

Captain Barton.

Captain P. B. B. Nichols, M.C.

S C.

Captain J. Kenyon.

Captain I. C. Grant, D.S.O.

Captain E. Woolmer, D.S.O., M.C.

Captain A. O. Needham, O.B.E., M.C.

Captain Bassett.

Captain J. Marshall.

1/5 B L. F.

Lt.-Col. J. Isherwood, C.B., V.D.

Lt.-Col. G. Wood, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. F. A. Woodcock, T.D.

Major W. Webb.

Lt.-Col. P. V. Holberton.

Lt.-Col. Clive, M.P.

Lt.-Col. G. S. Castle, M.C.

1/6 B L. F.

Col. Lord Rochdale.

Lt.-Col. R. L. Lees, D.S.O., V.D.

Lt.-Col. R. H. Barker.

Lt.-Col. M. F. Hammond Smith, M.C.

Lt.-Col. E. I. de S. Thorpe, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. C. H. de S. P. Bunbury.

1/7 B L. F.

Lt.-Col. A. F. Maclure, T.D.

Lt.-Col. C. T. Alexander, D.S.O.

Major W. J. Law.

Major M. R. P. W. Gledhill, M.C.

Lt.-Col. H. C. Woodcock.

Major E. W. Lennard.

Lt.-Col. W. E. Maskell.

Lt.-Col. G. S. Brewis, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. T. J. Kelly, D.S.O., M.C.

1/8 B L. F.

Lt.-Col. J. A. Fallows, T.D.

Lt.-Col. J. M. Rogers, D.S.O.

Major J. O. Hardicker.

Lt.-Col. O. St. Leger Davies.

Major G. E. Hope, M.C.

Lt.-Col. A. L. B. Shaw, D.S.O., T.D.

Lt.-Col. R. D. Waterhouse.

Major H. A. Kirkby, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. H. P. Cochrane.

Major G. S. Castle, M.C.

Lt.-Col. G. S. MacLeod, D.S.O.

126 INFANTRY BRIGADE

C.

Brig.-Gen. D. G. Prendergast, C.M.G.

Brig.-Gen. Visct. Hampden, C.B., C.M.G.

Brig.-Gen. A. W. Tufnell, C.M.G.

Brig.-Gen. A. C. Johnston, D.S.O., M.C.

Brig.-Gen. W. W. Seymour.

Brig.-Gen. G. H. Wedgwood, D.S.O.

Brig.-Gen. T. H. S. Marchant, D.S.O.

B M.

Major C. J. Hickie, C.M.G.

Captain L. Gordon.

Major P. V. Holberton.

Captain A. P. Garnier, M.C., M.B.E.

Captain B. Sanderson, M.C.

Captain R. R. Shawcross.

Captain H. Parker, D.S.O.

S C.

Captain T. Robinson, D.S.O., T.D.

Captain C. L. Wauchope.

Captain Porter.

Captain L. St. G. Wilkinson, M.C.

Captain W. M. Tucker, M.C.

Captain D. V. Porteous.

1/9 B M R.

Lt.-Col. D. H. Wade.

Major R. B. Nowell.

Lt.-Col. R. W. Falcon.

Major Anderson.

Major A. H. Roberts.

Lt.-Col. E. C. Lloyd.

Lt.-Col. J. L. Heselton, D.S.O., M.C.

1/10 B M R

Lt.-Col. J. B. Rye, V.D.

Lt.-Col. W. G. Robinson, C.B.

Lt.-Col. R. P. Lewis.

Lt.-Col. W. R. Peel, D.S.O.

1/4 B E L. R.

Lt.-Col. F. D. Robinson, V.D.

Lt.-Col. G. W. G. Lindesay, D.S.O.

Major H. R. Coningsby.

Lt.-Col. C. W. Battye, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. A. H. S. Hart-Synott, C.M.G., D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. A. L. Wrenford.

1/5 B E L. R.

Lt.-Col. J. Craven Hoyle, T.D.

Lt.-Col. W. E. Sharples, T.D.

Lt.-Col. G. Whitehead.

Lt.-Col. W. M. Acton, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. R. W. Murray-White, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. E. W. Lennard.

Lt.-Col. O. C. Clare, D.S.O., M.C.

Lt.-Col. J. P. Hoxey, M.C.

127 INFANTRY BRIGADE

C.

Brig.-Gen. Noel Lee, V.D.

Brig.-Gen. Hon. H. A. Lawrence, K.C.M.G.

Brig.-Gen. G. S. McD. Elliot, C.B.E.

Brig.-Gen. V. A. Ormsby.

Brig.-Gen. Hon. A. M. Henley, C.M.G., D.S.O.

B M.

Major H. L. Knight, C.M.G., D.S.O.

Captain P. L. Leared.

Captain A. G. Stone, O.B.E.

Captain E. G. T. Tuite-Dalton, M.C.

Captain De V. Stacpoole, M.C.

S C.

Captain T. N. C. Nevill.

Captain W. T. Woods, D.S.O., M.C.

Captain W. G. Orrell.

1/5 B M R.

Colonel W. S. France, V.D.

Lt.-Col. H. C. Darlington, C.M.G., T.D.

Major J. H. Allen.

Lt.-Col. T. Blatherwick, D.S.O., M.C.

Lt.-Col. W. F. Panton.

Lt.-Col. W. M. Tickler, M.C.

1/6 B M R.

Lt.-Col. G. G. P. Heywood.

Lt.-Col. C. R. Pilkington, C.M.G.

Lt.-Col. C. S. Worthington, D.S.O., T.D.

Lt.-Col. G. H. Wedgwood, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. T. Blatherwick, D.S.O., M.C.

1/7 B M R.

Lt.-Col. H. E. Gresham, T.D.

Major J. Staveacre.

Major P. H. Creagh, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. A. Canning, C.M.G.

Lt.-Col. A. E. Cronshaw, D.S.O., T.D.

Bt. Lt.-Col. H. A. Carr, D.S.O.

Bt. Lt.-Col. W. T. Bromfield.

Bt. Lt.-Col. E. V. Manger.

1/8 B M R.

Lt.-Col. W. G. Heys, T.D.

Lt.-Col. F. I. Bentley, T.D.

Lt.-Col. A. E. F. Fawcus, D.S.O., M.C.

Lt.-Col. D. F. McCarthy Morrogh, C.M.G.

Lt.-Col. J. H. Allen.

Lt.-Col. H. M. Stephenson, T.D.

Lt.-Col. C. S. Worthington, D.S.O., T.D.

Lt.-Col. H. T. Dobbin, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. E. G. K. Cross, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. H. S. Bowen.

Lt.-Col. A. V. Michaelis.

Lt.-Col. W. F. Panton.

Lt.-Col. F. E. Tetley, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. A. Hodge, D.S.O., M.C.

1/7 B N F (P B).

Lt.-Col. H. Liddell, D.S.O., M.C.

ROYAL ARMY SERVICE CORPS

Lt.-Col. J. G. Needham, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. J. Coulson, D.S.O.

ROYAL ARMY MEDICAL CORPS

1/1 F A.

Lt.-Col. H. G. Parker.

Lt.-Col. W. L. Bentley.

Lt.-Col. A. Callam, D.S.O.

1/2 F A.

Lt.-Col. W. B. Pritchard.

Lt.-Col. W. L. Bentley.

Lt.-Col. W. R. Matthews, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. W. F. Munro, M.C.

1/3 F A.

Lt.-Col. W. Howorth.

Lt.-Col. E. H. Cox, D.S.O.

Lt.-Col. H. H. B. Cunningham.

LEFT TO RIGHT: BRIG.-GEN. F. W. H. WALSHE, C.M.G., D.S.O., C.R.A.; MAJOR-GEN. A. SOLLY-FLOOD, C.B., C.M.G., D.S.O., COMMANDING 42ND DIVISION; BRIG.-GEN. H. FARGUS, C.B., C.M.G., D.S.O.; BRIG.-GEN. THE HON. A. M. HENLEY, C.M.G., D.S.O.

P G B R C S, L, ., ., .. 1, , .

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE 42ND (EAST LANCASHIRE) DIVISION 1914-1918 ***

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