Every Witch Way But Wicked (A Wicked Witches of the Midwest Mystery) Read Online Free Page B

she was sliding the cut fruit from the carving board into the homemade pie shell on the counter. My mom smacked Thistle’s hand dismissively – but there wasn’t a lot of force beyond the motion.
    “That’s for dessert,” she admonished Thistle sharply.
    “Aunt Winnie, you know I love your apple pie,” Thistle said charmingly. “You can’t expect me to wait for perfection, though.”
    What a suck-up.
    My mom slid a knowing look in my direction. “At least someone appreciates me.”
    Good grief.
    I glanced over at my Aunt Twila, Thistle’s mom, to see what she was doing. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like she was basting stuffed chicken breasts. Yum. She hadn’t looked up from her task yet, but I couldn’t wait until she did. When she saw Thistle’s new hair color things were bound to get interesting.
    Twila finished her basting and slipped the chicken breasts back in the oven. She straightened and then turned to greet us. Her mouth dropped and her eyes flew open when she saw Thistle’s new hair. “What did you do?”
    “I dyed it,” Thistle said coyly. “I thought you would like it. You’d been nagging me for weeks because you didn’t like the blue.”
    Twila pursed her bright red lips – which matched her own distinct hair color -- and regarded her offspring dubiously. “When I told you to dye your hair, I meant to a more natural color. What’s wrong with your own hair color? It’s beautiful.”
    The truth was, I couldn’t exactly remember Thistle’s real hair color anymore. We had pictures from when we were kids, but for as long as I could remember Thistle had been changing the hue of her hair whenever the mood struck – and her moods were usually the brightest shades of the rainbow she could find in a bottle at the local head shop.
    I had a sneaking suspicion that Thistle’s love of changing her hair color had as much to do with her own taste as it did with irritating her mother. Hey, we’ve all done it.
    Of course, for Twila to discriminate against anyone’s hair was pretty rich. I had no idea what her natural color was either, mostly because I had never seen it. She’d had the same bright red hair since I was born – and the shade of red she opted for couldn’t be found in nature. It could be found on the creepy clown from It , though.
    “I thought you would like the color better,” Thistle said snottily. “Perhaps you should be careful what you wish for from now on?” Thistle quirked her dark brow suggestively. She really was ready for battle tonight.
    Twila wasn’t known for walking away from a fight either, and I could tell things were about to get ugly so I changed the subject. “Why is Aunt Tillie wearing sunglasses in the house?”
    My mom bit the inside of her cheek and went back to her pie preparations. Twila suddenly found the dishes in the sink more interesting than the conversation. That left Marnie. I turned to her expectantly.
    “Aunt Tillie has a condition,” Marnie said carefully.
    Clove looked up in surprise. “Is she okay?”
    Thistle and I were more suspicious. Aunt Tillie was a lifelong hypochondriac. If she ever had a real condition, I wasn’t aware of it. That is, unless you count vindictiveness as a physical ailment.
    “She’s fine,” my mom waved Clove’s concerns off dismissively.
    Marnie arched her eyebrows dubiously. “She thinks her eyes are allergic to oxygen.”
    What? “I don’t understand.”
    “Neither do we,” Twila said cautiously. “It started yesterday. She says her eyes can’t be exposed to oxygen.”
    I shot Thistle a curious look. “But sunglasses don’t stop oxygen from getting to your eyes – and why would she possibly think that she’s allergic to oxygen?”
    “Because she’s crazy and she wants attention.” I think Thistle meant for the statement to be quieter than it was, but everyone in the room had heard – and given the sharp intake of breath from the older women in the room -- I had a feeling this was one