Miss Hawthorne Sits for a Spell Read online

  She gave serious thought to just planting her foot and driving away, leaving the man behind her. Then his face lowered, so he grinned at her through the window. He made a winding gesture with his hand as though the push button hadn’t taken precedence thirty years ago.

  Emily dropped the window a few centimetres. Enough to hear and be heard, not enough to be grabbed. “Can I help you?”

  “I need that box,” the man said, pointing into Emily’s lap. “No joke. How much for it?”

  “I’m not selling.” Emily pumped her finger onto the button and the window slid back up again.

  The man slapped the palm of his hand on the glass. “I’m serious,” he shouted, spittle hitting against the window in a spray. “Name your price. I’ll sort it out with the bank.”

  She put the car into gear and revved the engine. With one last, disgusted bang on the bonnet, the man stepped back, scowling as Emily drove past him.

  “As if I’d let you go to someone that horrid,” she whispered to the puzzle still laying in her lap. If she wasn’t still so vigilant about driving, certain at any moment she might have another accident, Emily would have given it a sly pat.

  At home, Emily placed the puzzle box on her bedside table. She couldn’t resist stroking the wood a few times before leaving it. When she came through into the kitchen, she was astonished to find ten minutes had passed.

  “I don’t even know why I like it so much,” she told Peanut, giving him a pat and listening to his chest roar in response. “But I do.”

  “What’s that?” Cynthia asked as she walked straight through the wall, giving Emily a nasty start. “Have you stashing away goodies from the auction instead of selling them.”

  “I bought and paid for it, thank you very much.”

  “Do you have anything exciting planned for the weekend?” Cynthia picked up the ghost cat and gave him a squeeze. “I can’t tell you how bored I am.”

  “The garden’s in quite a state.” Emily shot it a worried glance, then directed the same expression at her knees. Even with the kneeling pad, it got harder each time to get back up after weeding.

  “I think you’ve misinterpreted my use of the word exciting, Scarface. Isn’t it your birthday soon? We could throw a party.”

  “It’s tomorrow and I’m too old to throw anything.” Emily opened the fridge, then stared blankly inside the door—forgetting what she’d wanted.

  “At least get a nice cake and invite your two friends around to celebrate.” Cynthia put her head to one side, scrunching up her nose. “Or is that tally up to three, now?”

  “I’ve got more friends than you, even if you include me in that total.”

  “Whatever. Women always hated me because I was beautiful.”

  Emily rolled her eyes. A completely different reason had sprung to her mind.

  “Crystal should have something to help you celebrate properly,” the ghost continued, unconcerned at the lack of interest. Peanut struggled out of his dead mistress’s grip and ran to the pantry, attempting to jump on a tiny potato beetle crawling across the floor.

  “You mean music?” Emily leaned against the bench, letting the edge of the formica dig into her lower back. “I used to love a bit of dancing.”

  “Were you any good at it?”

  “It was all slow waving arms and legs when I was growing up. Everyone used dance as a means of self-expression, so notions of being good or bad didn’t mean the same thing.”

  “I’ll take it you’re bad, then. Anyway, that wasn’t the type of aid to celebration I was talking about.” She mimed toking on a joint, her eyes half-closed against the imaginary smoke.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m too old to take up that sort of nonsense. Besides, when my head gets rattled it’s capable of giving me a trip all by itself.”

  Although she’d felt dizzy during the day, Emily had experienced something closer to hallucinations a few weeks ago. The bone fragments in her brain weren’t lodged so much as they were free-wheeling.

  Emily tried to be sanguine about the situation—there was nothing anybody could do, after all—but it still freaked her out when a dream played out before her eyes while she was still wide awake.

  “Cake doesn’t sound too bad,” she said, laughing as Peanut scampered back to rub against her ankles. “I’m afraid you’re in the wrong state to eat it,” she told the ghost cat. “But if you want to watch while I scoff the entire thing, you’re welcome.”

  “I need to find a new host,” Cynthia grumbled. “Or liven things up by getting my poltergeist on.”

  “Just stay away from my crockery and glasses if you’re going down that route.” Emily waggled her finger in the ghost’s face. “I can’t afford to replace anything at the moment. Not after buying my new treasure.”

  She’d picked the word up from a friend, Agnes Myrtle, who used it to refer to the objects with sentimental value she’d acquired throughout the years. Even though Emily had let go of her previous collection of object d’art when she first moved from Christchurch to Pinetar, the wooden puzzle reignited the old possessive joy.

  Cynthia moved off to examine the new find and Emily tensed until the ghost floated back into the kitchen. “I don’t see what’s so special about it. Gregory had a bunch of wooden toys when he was younger, and he’d ditch them all if someone brought out the PlayStation.”

  “You don’t need to see what’s special. I do and that’s why I bought it.”

  “Okay.” Cynthia raised her eyebrows and Emily realised she’d raised her voice.

  “Sorry. Things got a bit weird at the auction house.”

  “Oh?”

  “A man won it then couldn’t pay for it.” Emily shrugged. It didn’t sound like a big deal, but her stomach fluttered at the memory of him banging on her window. “He followed me outside after I paid for it, instead.”

  “He attacked you?”

  Emily shook her head. “No. He just offered to buy it from me at any price, then thumped on my car a bit when I didn’t agree.”

  “Living it up, aren’t you? If someone acted like that when I was alive, I’d have reported them straight to the police.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t that bad. We just both wanted the same thing and only one of us could have it.”

  Cynthia furrowed her brow. “And you’re talking about the wooden box in your room?”

  Her voice was stuffed full of so much confusion that Emily laughed. “Yes.”

  She fixed herself dinner and sat down in time to watch the news. Cynthia sat beside her, petting Peanut while Emily ate.

  “You should at least spring for Netflix,” she grumbled as the bulletins gave way to a reality show about doing up houses. “Free-to-air TV is rubbish.”

  “My wifi bill is high enough without adding shows onto it.”

  “Go unlimited.”

  “Go somewhere else and watch telly. Surely, that’s the advantage of being a ghost. No one’s going to stop you sitting behind them as they binge on Game of Thrones.”

  “I like it—”

  Cynthia closed her mouth with a snap and Emily burst out laughing. If she’d been able to touch the ghost woman, she’d have tickled her silly.

  “You like it here. You like me! Go on, admit it.”

  “You’re better than some other places, that’s all. I got used to it here.” Cynthia stuck out her bottom lip. “Besides, you’re holding my cat hostage.”

  “Hardly. You came back to give him to me, remember?”

  As she settled into her bed for the night, Emily picked up the puzzle and worked at it for a few minutes. The rhythm of pushing the innies and the outies until the shape changed was soothing. Emily’s eyes glazed over as she concentrated on the feel of the puzzle in her hands.

  “For goodness’ sake. Leave the thing alone and go to bed. I want to sit outside and watch the stars and I can hardly do that with your light beaming out on me.”

  Emily shook her head, freeing her mind from the reverie. An hour had disappeared somew
here along the line.

  “Whatever,” she snapped, offsetting her confusion with a quick rush of anger. “Why don’t you head on over the rainbow bridge for the night and leave me alone?”

  Cynthia ignored her—the benefit of having such a rude and crotchety ghost for a friend was that everything ran off her back.

  She sat bolt upright a second later as the puzzle was knocked to the floor. When Emily flicked the light on, Peanut sat on the side table, licking his paws and feigning innocence. The wooden box lay on the floor.

  “You’ve got more substance than I give you credit for,” Emily said as she leaned over the side of the bed to pick up the old toy.

  The face that stared back from under it came as no real surprise though her heart jumped into Emily’s throat.

  “Hello, my new ghost friend,” she said when the hammering settled down to its normal rhythm. “Why don’t you come out from under there and tell me what you need?”

  Chapter Three

  “One day,” Emily said with a yawn wide enough to show off her molars. “A ghost will turn up during the daytime, and I can stop losing sleep.”

  “I didn’t mean… The thing is…”

  The female ghost stopped in confusion, her shoulders hunched defensively.

  “Don’t worry. Just an observation. You don’t need to pay me any mind.”

  “It’s better if you don’t,” Cynthia drawled from the opposite seat.

  The new ghost stared at her in wonder, then patted her own tangled locks of hair. “I don’t seem to be dressed for the occasion.”

  “What’s that stain all down the front of your dress?” Cynthia leaned forward, squinting. “Or is that some designer’s idea of art?”

  The ghost plucked the insubstantial material away from her ethereal body. “If I could wash it, believe me, I would.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s my blood.”

  “Ugh.” Cynthia jerked back and pulled a face, then held her hands up as the new arrival launched into an effusive apology. “No, don’t worry. It’s my fault for asking.”

  “What’s your name?” Emily said, rubbing a hand over her face as she tried to get the conversation back on track.

  “Miss Hawthorne,” the ghost said, then hunched even further into herself. “I mean, Wanda.”

  Cynthia snorted in delight. “If that was my first name, I’d go by Miss, too.”

  “Really?” Emily raised her right eyebrow and stared at her friend. “You’re going there? You do remember I saw your real name on your coroner’s report, though I’ve been too polite to mention it aloud.”

  The ghost scowled, crossed her arms, and sat back in the chair. “It’s no skin off my nose.” Despite her statement, she turned to Wanda. “It was just a casual observation, dear. There’s no need to take it to heart.”

  “Oh, of course,” the woman said, nodding her head vigorously. Then a frown mounted her forehead. “Or of course, not. Whichever.”

  “Do you know why you’re still around here?” Emily asked, tapping the table to gain Wanda’s attention. Her gaze had been transfixed on Cynthia, similar to how a mouse might stare in awe at a cat.

  “I can leave.” Wanda jumped to her feet and turned in a circle, searching for the door. “It’s no bother. I can come back in the morning, or not. If you don’t want to see me again that’s fine. I quite understand.”

  Cynthia’s shoulders shook with mirth, but she was considerate enough to clap a hand over her mouth.

  “Sit down, Wanda,” Emily said in as coaxing a voice as she could manage after eleven o’clock at night. “I meant what you’re doing in this world, not in the house. You’re welcome here for as long as it takes to get you sorted.”

  “And since you can speak, you’re a vast improvement on the last guest.” Cynthia nodded in approval.

  Wanda’s face remained creased with anxiety, but she sat back down, her back rigid and her butt floating a good inch above the chair. “Only if you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure. Do you remember what happened to you when you died?”

  The ghost rubbed at her chest, grimacing as she looked at the large stain. “A car ran me off the road and I wound up hitting the only above-ground electricity pole on the highway running out of town. Bad luck, I suppose.”

  “It ran you off the road?” Emily cupped the base of her throat and closed her eyes hard to rid them of the sudden image of her own accident. “You mean, deliberately?”

  “Oh, no. It was raining,” Wanda said, as though that explained everything.

  “Most people survive driving in the rain,” Cynthia said after leaving a long enough gap with no forthcoming information. “How did a car manage to run you into a pole?”

  “They skidded.” Wanda shook her head, her lower lip trembling. “It broadsided the rear of my car. There’s no way that could’ve been deliberate.”

  “Are you sure?” As soon as the words were out of Emily’s mouth, she wanted to take them back. The startled look of confusion on her guest’s face clearly showed she now doubted herself. “It’s just, most of the time when ghosts turn up here, it’s because someone killed them.”

  “I’m not important enough for anyone to want to kill me.” Wanda laughed but her eyes were large and sad. “And the other driver got pretty banged up. The collision burst the tank and petrol sprayed everywhere. If it hadn’t been for the drizzle, the fire would’ve killed him as dead as me.”

  “Your car caught fire?” Emily winced and pulled back against her chair. She thought that sort of event only happened in Hollywood blockbusters. “How awful.”

  “It would’ve been, but I was dead by then.” Wanda rubbed at the same position on her chest again, in the middle of her tiny bosom. “The council had a fire danger warning billboard on a pole. My car caught it when I span off the road and lifted the base of it until it caught on the electricity pole.”

  Suddenly, the large stain spilling down the front of Wanda’s dress made perfect sense to Emily. She swallowed a rush of spit, unable to pull her eyes away.

  “The warning sign must’ve been in the red zone, for sure,” Cynthia said, the light tone unable to disguise the tremor in her voice. “For everything to catch fire even in the rain.”

  “I was done like a kebab by the time the emergency department cut me free,” Wanda said with a hint of a smile. “Teach me right for wearing my seat belt. My passenger went…” She mimed someone flying through the air.

  Emily grabbed a glass of water, unable to sit still with that particular vision knocking around inside her head. “I wonder what it is that brought you to me, then.” She touched her fingers to the scar running down the side of her face. “Whatever it is, I hope it’s not a guessing game like last time.”

  “On the other hand,” Cynthia said, “with Mr Wilmott you got four deaths sorted for the price of one.”

  “Go me.”

  “Am I meant to know what I’m doing here?” Wanda asked, her face pulling into a frown. “Only, I can remember the accident plain as day, but not a lot else.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not as though the afterlife hands you a card with detailed instructions.” Cynthia cooed at Peanut who appeared unimpressed. “We’re all just playing a guessing game.”

  “It could be my sister, maybe?”

  Emily drank the last of her water and returned to her seat at the table. “What’s happened to her?”

  “I stored her away for safekeeping,” Wanda said, clasping her hands together. “In a little wooden toy. She’ll need rescuing from that. Otherwise, her life will be seriously dull.”

  A minute later, Emily held the puzzle out, retrieved from her bedside cabinet. “Here you go, but I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, it’s a witch thing.” Wanda waved her hand as though the entire line of questioning was irrelevant. “When I saw the car heading for the pole, I thought I’d better get her out of there. No use both of us getting hurt.”

  She tried to pick up the puzzle and, when she
failed, pulled her mouth down at the corners. “Of course, I didn’t know I was going to be staked at the time or I might have cast the incantation for myself.”

  Cynthia’s face sported a snide smile. “You’re not one of those, are you?”

  “One of whom?”

  “The women who hide out in Pinetar forest, pretending that chanting to mushrooms makes them other-worldly.”

  Wanda chewed on her bottom lip. “I’ve never chanted anything to fungus in my life.”

  “But you think you’re a witch.” Cynthia snorted and shook her head. “I’d rather have the mute Alzheimer’s patient back, thanks. At least there was a physical reason for him to be demented.”

  “I’m not mental,” Wanda snapped, with the quick response of someone who’d been accused many times before. “There are more powerful things in this world than most people can see, that’s all.”

  “Sure.” Cynthia held up her hand. “Please don’t curse me. I’ll be shaking in my boots.”

  “You are sitting at a table close on six months after you were murdered,” Emily said, wrinkling her nose. “And I’m talking to you, so maybe Wanda has a point.”

  “Oh, please. All this nonsense about witchcraft is just a ruse to sell dried weeds to visiting tourists.” Cynthia folded her arms. “One of your lot tried to sell me a love potion when I was first married. Guess how much it was?”

  “True witches don’t sell love potions, that’s against coven law.”

  “But sticking your sister into a tiny piece of wood, isn’t?”

  “It was an emergency.”

  Cynthia reached over, picked up the puzzle, and knocked it against the edge of the table. “Hello? Are you in there?”

  Emily snatched it out of her hands while Wanda looked on, open-mouthed.

  “How can you do that? When I tried to touch it, my hands went straight through it.”

  “Cynthia’s a poltergeist,” Emily explained. “Our best guess is she’s able to harness those powers through the magic of being continually bad-tempered.”