"Nope," said the twins together.
"But her bedroom doors were opened?"
"Yep," came the echo.
"What about her barking rat?"
"Haven't seen Harold, either," said April.
I knew Old Lady Moore didn't have family or close friends and she rarely had visitors. If something bad happened to her, no one would know. So, that left me with a decision.
"I'm going to check on her."
"What?" April and May said together. They stared at me, dumbfounded. "Why?" they both said at the same time. The twins often spoke together or finished each other's sentences. I had to admit that sometimes I found the stereo-echo of their voices disconcerting.
"We're her only neighbors and we need to make sure she's okay." I pursed my lips. "Not inundate her with stink bubbles."
"It was a joke," muttered April.
"A joke," echoed May.
"Uh-huh. You stay here." I looked down at Grumbler. "You, too."
Grumbler pointedly ignored me, lifting her paws to bathe them. Oh, sure. She'd give me the cold shoulder until it was time for breakfast. Then she'd suddenly become my best friend, especially if I was holding a can of tuna.
I exited the gardens through the gate next to our house and jogged to the front porch of Old Lady Moore's home. Her house was a smaller version of ours, but it hadn't been maintained. The paint was peeling, the porch was rickety with rotted wood, and the yard was filled with high grass and odious weeds.
We lived on the outskirts of town. Only two houses occupied the immediate area: ours and Old Lady Moore's. Across the road was an empty field. Beyond it was a sizeable swath of forest. We were isolated, but on most days, I liked the privacy. Going to town was never a joyful activity. We had serenity out here—well, if you didn't count our contentious relationship with the elderly witch and her mean dog.
I knocked on the front door. "Mrs. Moore?" I yelled. "Are you all right?"
No answer. Not even Harold barked—and that dog barked at everything.
I knocked harder. "Mrs. Moore? Mrs. Moore!"
What if she was hurt? Or what if she was… dead?
Okay, Cassie, don't panic. Hesitantly, I grabbed the brass knob and turned it. The door wasn't locked, so I opened it and poked my head inside. "Mrs. Moore?" I called out. "It's Cassandra Willowstone. Are you all right?"
The deafening silence churned my worry into a roiling, acidic foreboding that made my stomach cramp as I considered what to do next.
I didn't have a choice. I'd have to risk Old Lady Moore's wrath and enter her home without an invitation. If she screamed at me, then fine. At least I'd know she was all right and we could return to casting dirty looks at each other.
I blew out a deep breath as I stepped inside the house and stood in the foyer. I didn't hear the rustle of a person or dog moving around. The wood floor creaked beneath my bare feet as I tiptoed down the hallway. To the left was a dark parlor crowded with book-crammed shelves and teetering paper piles. The single recliner smack dab in the middle of the mess faced a large, big screen television. On the right side of the recliner I saw a TV tray filled with what was probably last night's microwave dinner and used tissues.
Whew.
The stench of garlic was robust.
The kitchen was further down the hallway, past the stairs to the right. I entered and looked around. The counters were crowded with cookbooks, jars of dried herbs, and spell-working tools. Dirty dishes filled both sides of the ceramic double sink. I moved to the stove and looked at the stockpot on the back burner. My nose crinkled as I leaned down and found the source of the garlic smell. Whole cloves of garlic floated in the water along with chunks of ginger root and slices of lemons. Next to the pot was an opened jar of cayenne pepper. I twisted the lid back on. I recognized the brew as a well-known medicinal recipe I'd made plenty of times myself for colds and flus. If the tissues weren't evidence enough, this concoction confirmed Mrs. Moore was sick.
I exited the kitchen and returned to the staircase. Given the eerie silence down here, I assumed the elderly witch and her familiar must be on the second floor.
"Mrs. Moore?" I called.
Not even a faint cough answered my query.
"Please, please don't be dead," I whispered.
I grasped the railing and started up the stairs.
When I reached the top, I found Mrs. Moore's ornery familiar Harold standing in the hallway outside an opened door. The dog wasn't barking at me or trying to rip off my ankles. He was allowing me into his witch's space, and I knew that in itself was bad news.
The Chihuahua tilted his head and whined at me. His little nails tapped on the wood floor as he entered his mistress's bedroom. He poked his head out of the doorway and yipped at me, which I took to mean, "In here, you idiot."
"Please don't be dead," I whispered again as I followed Harold into the room.
Old Lady Moore lay on her queen-sized bed, a ratty quilt haphazardly covering her rail thin body. Another pile of used tissues covered her nightstand along with a bottle of Nyquil and a cup of tea that still held most of its liquid. I leaned down and sniffed. Yep. Same concoction from the stove.
Harold jumped onto the bed—an achievement no regular Chihuahua could accomplish given the bed was at least four feet high. He padded to his witch and sat down at her side, his beady gaze on me. When he wasn't snarling and barking, the little ball of fluff was actually cute.
He tilted his head toward the old woman.
"Okay, okay," I whispered. My heart thudded in my chest as I pressed my fingertips against Mrs. Moore's wrinkly arm.
She was cold to the touch.