Chapter 6

WHEN I ARRIVED at the shop later, I found another gift on the doorstep—a miniature pumpkin with an intricate black cat drawing painted on it. The attached note read: You will soon know of my love for you. What the heck? This was a joke, right? I set the pumpkin on the counter and continued about my business.

For the remainder of the morning, all the gossip in The Cookbook Nook teemed around Pearl’s murder. Had her daughter killed her? Was one of her clients a murderer? Had a Winsome Witch done her in? I knew the often-asked questions when it came to murder investigations, but one unrelated question continued to plague me: had I, by my return to Crystal Cove, cursed the town? Guilt gnawed at me. I felt I needed to do something to fix the problem, but what could I do? Leave? Return to San Francisco? Move to Antarctica? I liked penguins.

Picking up on my anxiety, Tigger, my sweet kitty, sought me out. I cuddled him for a while, and then to keep my mind and hands occupied, I set about carving a pumpkin. Not the pumpkin left by the secret admirer. A big pumpkin about fifteen inches in diameter. Bailey joined me.

After a half hour of silent carving, Bailey held up a smaller pumpkin she had been working on. “What do you think?”

I choked back a snort. “Really? One tooth?”

She jutted her chin, obviously peeved. “I think he’s cute. What have you carved?”

I twisted my pumpkin—like hers, he was grinning, but mine had a little more bang for the buck. I’d given him bright eyes, bushy eyebrows, hair, ears, and a bow tie.

She gawked. “Guess I missed Pumpkin Carving 101 in college.”

“Blame my mother.” She had loved carving intricate designs in pumpkins like castles or leafless trees or the word boo in a jeering mouth. “You do know there’s a citywide pumpkin contest in addition to the Spookiest Window Display contest, don’t you?”

She moaned. “How can I compete with yours?”

“You don’t have to. We’re a team. Did you see the array of pumpkins in front of Aunt Teek’s? I think one is a cutout of the Bates Motel from Psycho. I’ll bet Bingo used a pattern.”

“Cheater.”

A while later, as I was arranging pumpkins outside the entry, Tito, the reporter for the Crystal Cove Crier, pulled to a stop on his mountain bicycle. He looked quite fit in snug biker pants and shirt. I knew he worked out. Had he doubled up on his regimen? A lock of dark hair spilled from beneath his helmet. He tucked it back in and grinned. Bailey believed he might have had some dental work done. She was probably right. His incisors didn’t look nearly as fanglike.

“Hola, chica,” he said, then quickly revised, “Hi, Jenna.” I’d made it very clear that I hated when he called me chica. “Beautiful day, no?”

“Yes.”

“It is a shame about Dr. Thornton.”

“Yes, it is.”

“She will be missed. Is there a story there?”

“What kind of story?” I asked, deliberately being evasive.

He offered a wry look. “Care to comment?”

“No.” I held up my hands. “Ask the police.”

As he rode off, a pack of ladies all dressed in gingham and looking like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, right down to their pigtails and freckles, hurried past me, each chattering with excitement. “Hello,” they trilled in unison.

I trailed them into the shop. No one in the store blinked an eye at the women’s outfits. It was almost Halloween, after all. Each lady carried a cloth tote emblazoned with a movie image of Dorothy, the Tin Man, the Lion, and the Scarecrow skipping along the yellow brick road.

“Ooh,” one of the women said as she browsed the display tables. “Look, girls. An Oz cookbook.” She plucked a book from a specialty shelf. I had ordered cookbooks that featured movies and television. “Cookin’ in Oz. How darling.” She turned to me. “Miss, are you the owner? We’re a Wizard of Oz book club. Can you help us?”

I had heard of dedicated groups like theirs. Most had read the entire set of Baum books. I remembered my grandmother reading original copies of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Marvelous Land of Oz, Dorothy and the Wizard, and more to me. I’d blissfully reread them in my teens during an especially rainy week. Sometimes there was nothing better than a dreary day when all I could do was read. With the trauma of Pearl’s death still cycling through my brain, I wished for one of those rainy days right now. I would close the shop and cuddle beneath a comforter and cry. But that, as my father would say, would not be productive, and I needed to feel productive.

To take my mind off the murder, I joined the women by the display. They clustered around me and gazed expectantly, as if I were the Wizard himself.

“We eat, drink, and sleep Dorothy if we can,” the woman who seemed to be the organizer continued. “Is that what this book is about?”

“Peek inside,” I said. “The authors have put together recipes and little anecdotes, not just about the movie but about the Broadway production and its collaborators, as well. Each shares his or her own story and possibly a recipe. It’s fun.”

She browsed the pages. “Hey, I didn’t know Art Carney was the scarecrow on Broadway. You know who Art Carney is, don’t you?”

I had a vague idea. Old actor on the Jackie Gleason television show.

“Ooh, I love learning something new.” She closed the book. “Do you have a dozen on hand?”

I gulped. “Only the one.”

“But you can order more and ship, yes?”

“Of course.”

As the ladies purchased other books and gift items, I learned they were from nearby San Jose. They had specifically come to town for the Winsome Witches luncheon. I also learned about a Wizard of Oz collector in the Stanford area. A retired orthodontist, he had immersed himself in all things Oz. He owned nearly two thousand Oz-related books; he had even built a yellow brick road in his collectibles room. Amazing.

When the ladies departed, Bailey joined me at the register. “Weren’t they enthusiastic?” she said. “Do you remember your favorite scary book?”

“Why scary?”

“Weren’t you totally freaked out reading The Wizard of Oz? The scene about the monkeys and the wicked witch. Ewww.” She shimmied with mock fright.

“Now that you mention it.” I vividly remembered shivering as my grandmother read the part about Dorothy being swept into the cyclone. “The second in the series wasn’t much tamer. If I recall, a little boy named Tip escapes from a witch with the help of Jack Pumpkinhead.”

“Perfect for Halloween.”

“However, nothing scared me more than Dracula.”

Bailey’s mouth dropped open. “You read Dracula?”

“And Frankenstein. Do you know the idea for Frankenstein came to Mary Shelley in a dream? She and some buddies were competing about who could come up with the best horror story.”

Bailey said, “Did you read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”

“Yes. I loved the way Stevenson laid out the secrets, morsel by morsel. Brilliant.”

On and on the two of us went, sharing book titles we had read over the years. By the time we reached the popular Goosebumps series by R. L. Stine, Katie appeared carrying a huge tray of popcorn balls.

“Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb,” Bailey cried.

“Monster Blood,” I responded. We had come up with about fifty titles so far. Stine was so prolific.

“Treats,” Katie said.

Bailey frowned. “That’s not a Goosebumps title.”

“No.” Katie wiggled the tray. “It’s snack time. I’m putting them in the hall. You two get first dibs.”

“They’re so teensy,” I said. Most popcorn balls I had sampled were the size of tennis balls. These were little golf ball–sized tidbits. I nibbled on one. “Yum. Butter and caramel and something else.”

“Marshmallows,” Katie said. “It makes them taste like corny Rice Krispies treats, don’t you think? Hoo-boy, that’s not what I meant. Not corny. Corn-filled . . . whatever.” She ambled into the breezeway between the shop and the café and set the tray on the table where we offered goodies for our customers. Half a minute later, she returned. “By the way, where is your aunt? I wanted to review the café menus for the week. I’ve conjured up all sorts of fun items using Halloween recipes.”

I glanced at the clock above the checkout counter. Two P.M. Where was my aunt? She had gone directly from Pearl’s house to the precinct. Surely the police were done questioning her by now. I was dying—bad choice of words—to find out whether Trisha or Emma had killed Pearl. I kept imagining the crime scene in my mind in little snippets, like a storyboard for one of my ad campaigns: the windblown patio, the scattered leaves, the empty martini glass, Pearl’s hat abandoned on the chaise lounge, Pearl’s body outstretched across the fire pit. Someone mentioned that she looked like she was reaching for something. What could it have been?

Katie said, “Do you think the Winsome Witches will cancel the luncheon?”

I shook my head. “Cinnamon said they didn’t have to.”

As much as I was saddened by Pearl’s death, I truly hoped that life in Crystal Cove would get back to normal soon. Our economy thrived on having groups like the Winsome Witches throwing gala parties. I was looking forward to the events we had planned at the shop. In addition to the magician and herbalist, we had considered having a special fortune-telling session—communing with imaginary ghosts would be involved—which made me think again about my aunt. Where was she? Should I be worried? I hoped Cinnamon hadn’t figured out some way to implicate Aunt Vera in the crime and locked her behind bars. I rang my aunt but reached her voice mail. I left a message for her to call me back.

For the next few hours, I focused on the upcoming special events day. We were planning on having a drawing. Everyone who bought a book would get a chance to win a Cookbook Nook gift basket. I’d had so much fun assembling the basket, which was filled with Halloween goodies like a goblin’s hand, a Witch Parking sign, rubber snakes, a glow stick for trick-or-treating, a black cat mug, and of course, a couple of dandy children’s fiction books including Angelina’s Halloween and Scary, Scary Halloween. The cost had run about a hundred dollars, but I figured it was worth the investment because the basket would attract tons of eager-to-win shoppers.

At 6:00 P.M., after closing The Cookbook Nook, I moved to the display window area to set the gift basket among the books.

Aunt Vera rushed past the window with her turban tucked beneath her arm. Her hair looked ironed to her head. The folds of her caftan fluted out. Even through the glass, I could hear the copious strands of beads around her neck rattling like old bones. What was up?

She raced into the shop and let the door slam behind her. “Oh my,” she cried. “I’ve lost them.”

I’d never seen my aunt so flustered. I dashed to her. “Lost what?”

“My powers. I can’t see the future. Not a whit.”

Honestly, I believed she made up everything. Was I mistaken?

“My eyes are fuzzy. My head is swimming with confusion.”

“Sit.” I forced her into a chair beside the vintage kitchen table. I pushed aside the unfinished jigsaw puzzle of wine bottle corks—we always had a foodie-themed puzzle in progress—and I gripped her hands. “Where have you been? I thought you were at the precinct.”

“I was, but I left there and went with Bingo to her shop. She needed my support.”

I didn’t ask why she hadn’t called me. It was obvious she was distraught.

“How could I say no?” my aunt continued. “Bingo is the new Head Priestess. There’s so much to do. She needed calming and asked me to predict her future, but Jenna, I couldn’t read her aura.” Her face turned into a mask of pain. “My power is gone. My channels are blocked.”

“Aunt Vera.”

“Stop. I know you’re not a believer, but I am. Truly. Next, I tried reading her palm. Nothing. I couldn’t make sense of even one line. I had a deck of tarot cards with me and asked Bingo to withdraw a card. She did, and I got nothing. Nothing. I—” She pulled a pack of tarot cards from the pocket of her caftan. “Draw one.”

“No.”

“Do it. Please. Don’t doubt me. Try.”

I obeyed. I drew the Devil card. It was upside down. I gasped.

“Inverted,” Aunt Vera said. “Not so bad. The Devil card is not as frightening as you think. When reversed or inverted, the card reminds you that a situation that may seem to be trapping you is an illusion. It’s not real. You have options, and help from family and friends is always available.”

I gestured with my pinky. “There. You see? You have nothing to worry about. You can tell the future.”

“That’s not the future. Tarot cards provide data. Simple facts. I get nothing else. No vibes.” She wiggled fingers beside her head. “I don’t know what situation you’ll be facing. It was the same with Bingo. I was blank. It’s because of my anger. Anger at this whole affair. Anger that Pearl is dead. Anger that I can’t do anything about it. I’m not the angry type, Jenna.”

Maybe my aunt’s blockage was being caused by something else. Was Bingo guilty of murder? Was her aura so black that my aunt didn’t dare break through?

Stop it, Jenna, you don’t believe this stuff. Yet . . .

I said, “What card did Bingo draw?”

“The Nine of Swords.”

I knew the card. A man sat in bed with nine swords lined up on the wall behind him. He was draped with a checkerboard quilt. In the course of my relationship with my aunt, I had learned the meaning of many of the cards. The Nine of Swords signified that the person had reached a realization of just how bad a situation was, essentially waking up from a nightmare. The quilt signified that he had been playing a game with himself. He had to take responsibility. “What did you say?”

“Not a word. I couldn’t interpret. But I felt fear. Right here.” She tapped her solar plexus with three fingertips.

“That means you’re getting something.”

“No, I’m not. I’m getting nothing. Nada. Zip.”

“C’mon, breathe.” I rested a hand on her shoulder. “At least it wasn’t the Ten of Swords.” A month ago, after I learned the real reason for my husband’s death, Aunt Vera insisted she tell my future. She knew how upset I was. I would have done anything to find my center. I’d pulled the Ten of Swords, a card with a man impaled by ten swords. Yipes. Even I knew that card was universally known as the get-out-of-Dodge card. But Aunt Vera had tweaked the reading. She had pointed out the light in the card to me. She told me that each beginning must come from an end. “In Bingo’s case, you’re picking up on her anxiety. One of her best friends has been murdered. She’s going to be the new High Priestess. That’s a lot of responsibility. In addition, she’s getting married.”

Aunt Vera sighed. I moved to a spot behind her and massaged her shoulders, trying to rub life and spunk into her.

When I released her, she said, “That’s it,” and leaped to her feet. Literally. She spun to face me and grabbed my face in both hands. “I may be a psychic mess, but I know my course. I have to solve the crime. Pearl was my dear friend. So is Bingo. To ease both of their souls, I must get involved. Maybe, if the fates are with me, Pearl will help.”

“Pearl? From the other side of who-knows-where?” Uh-oh. “Aunt Vera, slow down. The police—”

“Darling, the police can either abide my help or not. It won’t matter to me.” Without another word, she dashed from the store.

“Wait,” I called after her. “Katie wanted to discuss—”

But Aunt Vera didn’t stop. She popped into her classic Mustang, a car she’d had since she was a teenager—she always understood the value of a good investment—and sped off.

I raced to the sales counter and called my father for advice, but he wasn’t answering his phone. He hated the contraptions. If he could have life his way, people would still write letters and drop in for a cup of coffee. Even when he worked at the FBI, he was against anything being recorded. E-mails? Digital transmissions? Forget about it.

I dialed Bailey next, but her message went to voice mail, too. If she was hanging out with her paddleboarding pal, Jorge, she wouldn’t answer until morning. Shoot. I couldn’t talk to Katie; she was swamped with customers at the café. I considered calling Rhett but worried that if I did, he might think I was making a booty call. I wasn’t quite prepared to take the next step in our relationship.

“Tigger, it’s you and me, pal.” I scooped him into my arms. “Ready to listen?”

*   *   *

I BENT MY kitten’s ear for the entire ride home. As I drove past my aunt’s house, I scanned the windows for activity. The place was dark. The moment I entered my cottage, I felt lonely and edgy. Quickly, I lit a dozen vanilla-scented candles and turned on a Judy Garland CD—listening to Judy was also a throwback to my mother; she adored the way Judy crooned—and then I pulled out the fixings for fudge. Katie repeatedly reminded me that cooking was all about the preparation. Having drilled that tidbit into my brain, I now, at all times, kept my cupboards and refrigerator filled with items I needed to make candy or cookies. I adored sweets. And salty things. And fruit. What didn’t I like to eat?

Using a recipe I found in a Betty Crocker Cookbook, I whipped up a batch of fudge. Luckily, my aunt had the foresight to add a candy thermometer to my set of kitchen tools. After the fudge cooled to 120 degrees, I stirred in the vanilla and spread the fudge in the pan to set. Then I ate a quick dinner of cheese, crackers, and avocado slices paired with a crisp sauvignon blanc. I know, the meal wasn’t great on the healthy list, but I was fidgety. Salt and crunch helped.

When I finished, I opened a potion cookbook I’d brought home. The book was filled with healing potions. Thanks to Maya, I knew there were herbs and spices that made me feel better, like the scent of lavender or rosemary and the taste of cinnamon and nutmeg.

After reviewing the steps in a calming potion recipe, I snipped off some pieces of the herb garden I had planted on the front porch, and I returned to the kitchen. I dumped the sprigs into a bowl. Using the back of an ice cream scoop—I didn’t have what cooks called a muddler—I pressed the oil out of the herbs. I wrapped the potpourri into the toe of an old stocking, old because I hadn’t worn stockings since I’d moved back to Crystal Cove. Lucky me. I pondered why I had kept them. On the chance that I might return to the world of advertising? Never.

I tucked the mock sachet beneath the pillow of my bed and instantly felt calmer.

While snacking on fudge, I took a long, luxurious bath doused with lavender-scented salt. A half hour later, I climbed on top of my bed and fell asleep wrapped in a towel. Tigger snuggled into my stomach.

During the night, I had one fitful dream after another. I was swept up in a cyclone. I wasn’t Dorothy. I was Glinda the Good Witch of the North. In my bubbly childhood costume. The cyclone suddenly vanished, and I was seized by killer monkeys. With their talons clenched, they flew me across fields of poppies, right to the Witch of the East’s castle. Where my aunt was being held captive. In a gigantic bucket of water. The tune “Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead” started blaring in my brain.

I bolted upright on my bed, drenched in perspiration. I smacked the coverlet. “That’s it, you dope. Fudge is out of your diet after nine P.M.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and padded to the bathroom for a long drink of water.

As I stared at my raggedy image in the mirror, I wondered if the dream had significance. Was my aunt in danger? Did a fellow witch intend to melt her? Did I have to act as fairy godmother to save her?