The Ghost Detective Books 1-3 Special Boxed Edition: Three Fun Cozy Mysteries With Bonus Holiday Story (The Ghost Detective Collection)

by Jane Hinchey

  “Ooohhhh.” Turning my attention back to the monitor, I leaned forward, eyes darting from side to side as I scanned Ben’s notes. “He was! You had surveillance of it—but get this—she wanted further evidence. Why? Let’s see what you gave her.” I clicked on the attachments to the file and a dozen images opened up on the screen.

  “Wait.” I leaned closer, my nose almost touching the monitor. “Isn’t that the guy from the Drake case?”

  That got Ben’s attention. He rushed forward so fast he materialized inside the table. I shot back in surprise, my backward momentum too fast. The wheels of the office chair snagged on the rug and before I knew it I was flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Shit!” Ben cursed, stepping out of the desk. “Are you okay?”

  Rolling to my side, I scrambled to my feet and righted the chair. “Yep, I’m fine. Just wasn’t expecting you to appear in the desk, that’s all.” Settling myself back in the chair, I turned my attention back to the contents on the screen. “This”—I pointed— “must be Tonya’s husband, yes?”

  “I’d assume so if I’ve recorded surveillance footage of him.”

  “Tonya Armstrong…married to Steven Armstrong. As in Steven Armstrong the front of house manager from the hotel?” I scoured the details on the screen. “Bingo!” I shouted, punching the air. “There’s your connection! That’s why you haven’t closed off the Drake case—because it’s connected with your cheating bastard of a husband case.”

  “That wouldn’t be why I hadn’t closed off the case. It’s a connection, yes, but the fact that one of Drake’s employees is having an affair isn’t relevant.”

  “Not relevant? Surely Drake would want to know that the morals of one of his employees were …questionable?” I argued.

  “But that’s not what he hired me for. He hired me for a background check on his daughter’s boyfriend. My case with him has nothing to do with the hotel.”

  “So you’re saying you wouldn’t tell him what you’d discovered about Armstrong?” Ben shook his head. Shoulders slumping, I eyed the images on the screen once more. They were of Steven Armstrong kissing a blonde woman. “Do you know who the woman is?”

  “I had to get the shots with his face in view, to prove it’s him, which meant her back was to the camera.”

  “So that’s a no.”

  “Not necessarily. Check the notes. And there may be more photos on my camera that we can go through. I would have taken hundreds to get the money shot. I only deliver the ones that provide the undeniable proof my client is seeking.”

  I scanned the notes, but there was no mention of who the woman was. “It says here that Tonya wanted further proof…”

  Ben shrugged. “Some clients don’t want to believe the truth, even when presented with the evidence.”

  “But what does she mean, further proof?”

  “I can’t remember the details, but usually when it's a case like this, they want a video recording of their spouse caught in the act.”

  I gasped. “She wanted you to record them actually having sex?”

  He shrugged again. “Possibly. But look at the flag there.” He pointed to the bottom right of the screen where an orange tab indicated the case was ready to be closed.

  “You were closing the case.” No point in actually asking Ben that. The answer was, he couldn’t remember. I’d been hoping going through his files would jog his memory, but so far a big fat zero.

  “I don’t do sex tapes,” he said, drifting around the room.

  “Fair enough. So you’d flagged the Armstrong case to be closed. You’d already met with your client and provided her with the evidence you’d gathered. I see she paid you a retainer, but you haven’t invoiced for the remainder of your fee.” Picking up a pencil, I scribbled a note to remind myself to close out the file and send the invoice.

  “Third and final case.” I clicked open the one remaining green tab and blinked in disbelief. “Okay, this is just weird. Your third case was Brett Baxter. The same Brett Baxter, I assume, who is the event planner at the hotel. This is too much of a coincidence, Ben. All of your cases are connected. And the common thread is Philip Drake.”

  “I’d say the common thread is the Firefly Bay Hotel,” he argued.

  “But the hotel didn’t hire you—not for any of these investigations. Drake hired you personally. Tonya Armstrong hired you personally. As did Brett. What did he hire you for anyway?” Turning my attention back to the screen, I snorted. “A witch hunt? As in, he literally wanted you to prove witches are real? What the…? That’s just ludicrous!” As incredible as I found it, something niggled at the back of my brain, “But you took the case… Why would you take a case like this? Some zealot who believes in magic and witchcraft? That’s not like you.”

  “You’re right. It isn’t. Ordinarily that would be a hard pass. So the question is, why did I take the case?”

  “Because it overlaps with the other two?”

  He was shaking his head. “Check the dates I opened the other cases. At the time, I wouldn’t have known about the overlap. Maybe the overlap is pure coincidence.”

  “You don’t believe in coincidence.” It was true. He didn’t. It had been a long-term argument between us, and for once I agreed with Ben. It was too much of a coincidence for his three cases to be related—especially now that he was dead. Something in one of these files had driven someone to kill him.

  “You don’t have much on Brett. You couldn’t have started his investigation yet.”

  “Which is odd.” He peered over my shoulder again, his closeness bringing with it arctic conditions. Shivering, I pushed him away, only to have my hand disappear wrist deep inside him. With a yelp, I snatched my hand away and clambered to my feet. Ben looked contrite. “Sorry,” he said.

  “Why are you apologizing? I’m the one who just shoved my hand inside you!” I studied him, head cocked to one side. “Can you feel it, when that happens?” What I really wanted to ask was if it hurt when someone passed through him.

  He studied me for a second before a slow grin spread over his face. “It doesn’t hurt, Fitz. I can’t feel it, I can’t feel anything.”

  “When I touch you, I feel cold. Icy cold.”

  He nodded. “Ahhh, that explains why you’re constantly shivering.”

  10

  “He’s what now?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I glanced at Ben out of the corner of my eye, seated next to me in front of John Zampa’s giant mahogany desk, the plush tub chair curling around me in an oddly comforting embrace.

  “Left you his entire estate,” the lawyer repeated. “With some stipulations,” he added.

  I sucked in a deep breath, calming myself. This was unexpected. Yes, I fully expected to take custody of Ben’s cat, but that was the extent of my involvement in his estate. How wrong was I?

  “Which are?” It seemed only logical I should ask. Ben patted my knee, sending an icy chill down my leg and making me jerk. The lawyer looked at me, probably thought I was about to have some sort of seizure with the sporadic jerking I kept doing because Ben kept patting my leg to calm me down.

  “You are the new owner of his business, Delaney Investigations. And—once the paperwork is complete—you will have power of attorney for his father, William Delaney.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes, blurring my vision. I’d forgotten about Ben’s dad in all of this. Ben was an only child to Beryl and William Delaney. His mom died of cancer ten years ago, and his dad had been stricken down with Alzheimer’s and had spent the last three years in a nursing home.

  The lawyer continued. “McConnell’s, as executors of the will, will provide you access to a trust fund Mr. Delaney had set up to cover his father’s expenses. All remaining assets—the house, vehicle, bank accounts—will be transferred to you. I believe you already have possession of Mr. Delaney’s cat?”

  “Yes,” I croaked, cheeks wet with tears and snot starting to dribble out of my nose. A box of tissues was nudged towa
rd me and I grabbed a handful, pressing them to my face. I had never considered Ben would leave me everything. It was difficult to get my head around.

  After I’d signed a ton of paperwork, I was free to go. I stood, shook the lawyer’s hand, slung my purse over my shoulder, and promptly knocked the box of tissues off his desk.

  “Oops. Sorry.” I quickly snatched them up from the floor and placed them carefully back on the desk.

  “Not a problem at all, Miss Fitzgerald.” Despite my telling him to call me Audrey, he’d persisted with calling me Miss Fitzgerald throughout the entire proceedings.

  “You okay?” Ben asked as we left the offices of McConnell Law Firm and headed to my car parked out front.

  “I think I’m in shock,” I whispered, aware that to onlookers it appeared as if I were talking to myself. Sliding behind the wheel, I clasped it with both hands and sat for a moment, gathering my thoughts.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I finally asked, starting the engine and pulling out into the flow of traffic.

  “What? That I had a will?”

  “No, that you left everything to me in that will!”

  “It’s okay, I’m sure the cops don’t think you’re a suspect, that you knocked me off for the inheritance.”

  I blanched. “I hadn’t even considered that!” But now that he mentioned it, it dawned on me that in the cops’ eyes, I had motive. “Ben.” I glanced at him before turning my attention to the road. “I don’t even have a will. It was a huge shock that you made me your only beneficiary.”

  “You really should have a will, Audrey. If something were to happen to you, the state would take a huge chunk of your assets because you died without one.”

  “You’d need to have assets for that to be an issue,” I pointed out.

  “Well”—he sounded almost cheerful about this—“now you do!”

  Right. Now I had a four-bedroom house in a beautiful neighborhood, a Nissan Rogue, a cat, and apparently, a P.I. business. Oh, and I was responsible for any decisions concerning his dad. Not that that was an issue. I’d happily take on board Mr. Delaney’s well-being. Before he’d become ill he was an absolute sweetheart of a man. How would I tell him his son had died? No parent should have to bury their own children. It was heartbreaking.

  “About your dad…”

  “Don’t tell him,” Ben said. “He doesn’t remember me, hasn’t known who I am for over a year now. No need to upset him over something like this.”

  “Something like this?” I protested. “Ben, he’s your dad. He has to know.”

  “Does he though? Audrey, he lives in a world where he doesn’t have a wife or a son—he thinks he’s sixteen years old! Look, it’s just going to upset you more than it will him. The lawyers will notify the nursing home on the changes, and they’ll provide the new power of attorney documents. That’s all that needs to happen.”

  I wasn’t convinced that was the right course of action, but Ben had a point. I could afford to wait, at least for a little while.

  “I’m going to have to arrange your funeral, aren’t I?” It wasn’t that it would be a hardship. I’m a born organizer. It was just that it was another tangible truth. Ben was dead.

  “Afraid so,” he grinned, unrepentant.

  I snorted, turned the car onto the Esplanade, my eyes set on the Firefly Bay Hotel visible above the treeline.

  "Where are you going?" Ben asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

  I grinned. "I'm going to see what—or who—I can turn up at the hotel."

  "Audrey," Ben warned.

  "Don't ‘Audrey’ me," I grumbled. "I am now, officially, the owner of Delaney Investigations, and this is my first case. That requires me revisiting your open cases. You said so yourself."

  "Yes, well…" He cleared his throat. "When I wrote that will I wasn't expecting to be dying anytime soon."

  "Well, you did. Sucks to be you," I teased, tossing him a wink. "I wouldn't have to be doing any of this if you could only remember what happened. Or something useful, like the details of your open cases. I don't understand why you don't remember that." I'd descended from teasing to grumbling, beyond frustrated that Ben couldn't remember what he was working on. "Oh!" Another thought hit me. "You were working on something with Detective Galloway. But there was no record of it on your computer. What does that mean?"

  "Off the books," he said darkly, brows drawn together in a frown.

  "You were working—with a detective of all things—off the books?" My voice had gone up an octave in outrage. "Benjamin Delaney, how could you?"

  "What?" he protested. "I've worked off the books before."

  "Not that. I meant working with the cops. After the way they treated you?"

  He sighed. "Audrey, you have to let that go. I have. I've moved on, no point dwelling on it."

  "Ben, they squeezed you off the force—a job you loved. They lied. They made you look like a bad cop when we all know you weren't. It's appalling."

  "I know, I know, but it's done."

  "Corruption on the force is never done." I was just getting started, my indignation rising. "Look how Clements and Mills treated me, arresting me on the spot. Intimidation." I shook my head, my hair flipping around and whipping me in the eye. "Ow." Taking one hand off the wheel, I rubbed at my stinging eyeball, tucking my hair behind my ear to clear my vision.

  "Audrey!" Ben yelled. A car horn sounded and I looked up in time to see a four-wheel-drive bearing down on us.

  "Shit!" With a yank of the wheel, I got myself back onto the correct side of the road and cast a quick glance at Ben. "You okay?"

  "Well, it's not like I can die again," he muttered. "But I'd prefer it if you didn't join me. Just...both hands on the wheel, eh, Fitz? Please."

  "Pft, it was fine." But I gave in and wrapped my fingers around the steering wheel, tight, only because Ben looked like he might just soil himself and I wasn't sure what the end result would be. Ghostly slime? Who knew? But I wasn't prepared to risk it, just in case. Although...I now had access to Ben's car. His lovely, newer than my hunk 'o junk, Nissan Rogue, with leather seats, automatic everything, a sexy gun metal grey with not a scratch, dent, or rust patch to be seen. A car he had never let me drive.

  "What are you thinking about?" Ben cut into my thoughts. "I don't like that grin. It's evil."

  I clapped a hand to my chest in mock outrage, remembered I'd promised to keep both hands on the wheel, so quickly slapped it back on the wheel, and gasped, "Me? Evil? How dare you. If you must know, I was thinking about your car. It's mine now." My smile was full-blown as his eyes widened into perfectly round orbs.

  "Ooops. We're here!" I'd almost overshot the hotel. Slamming my foot hard on the brakes, I yanked on the steering wheel. The back end screeched in protest as it slid across the asphalt, and I glided into the parking space with practiced precision.

  Ben was shaking his head and keeping a ghostly grip on the armrest. "I will never get used to that."

  "Oh come on, you love it." I grinned. "Also, I've had another brilliant idea."

  "Another?" he teased, as if I hadn't managed even one brilliant idea yet.

  "Lucky for you, you're incorporeal so I can't punch you. Smartass. But yes, I know how we can communicate without me looking like I'm insane."

  "Do tell."

  "My phone. I’ll pretend to be on a call. Only I'll be talking to you. Brilliant, right?"

  He smiled, teeth shining white—actually they were a little too white, and I wondered if the afterlife added something a little ghostly extra. "Actually that's not a bad idea, Fitz."

  "I know, right?" Pleased with myself, I unbuckled and half climbed, half fell out of the car. Straightening up, I locked it, grabbed my phone out of my bag, waggled it at Ben who was watching with one brow arched, then threw my bag over my shoulder, only to have it hit the window of my car and ricochet back on me, making me lose my balance. I ignored Ben's snort and tried again, only with less enthusiasm this time. With a happy grin and sidew
ays glance, I crossed the street and made my way inside the Firefly Bay Hotel.

  As we crossed the foyer to the reception desk, Ben nudged me with an icy blast of his elbow, "Ahhh, Fitz?"

  "Mmmmm?" I was focused on my quest. The redhead behind the counter. She was young—she looked about twelve!—but her makeup may well have been applied with a trowel, it was so thick. She'd look so much prettier if she toned it down a notch or a hundred.

  "Your phone? I can't make it ring, you know. If you want to be pretending you're talking to me, you may want to at least hold it up to your ear," he prompted. Of course, he was right. As usual. With a huff, I lifted the phone to my ear, paused in my stride as if I'd just answered it—since Miss Twelve Year Old With More Makeup Than A Drag Queen had heard me approach and was waiting with a plastic smile.

  "Happy now?" I inquired.

  "Ecstatic." He grinned. And looking at his smiling face, in that moment he looked relaxed and happy and alive. Only he wasn't, and my answering smile slipped, and my eyes became a little glassy. I missed him. I missed him being alive.

  He saw the change. "Fitz?" he prompted, concerned.

  I sniffed. "It's okay," I reassured him, "I'm just having a moment."

  The look of discomfort wasn't hard to miss. The typical reaction of a man when a woman says she's having a moment. As in...emotions. Gah.

  Straightening my shoulders, I sniffed—an incredibly unladylike sniff—and continued to the reception desk.

  "Good afternoon, ma'am," Miss Twelve Year Old With More Makeup Than A Drag Queen greeted me. "How may I help you today?"

  My eyes landed on the name badge pinned to her lapel. Putting my hand over my phone so the fictitious person on the other end couldn't hear, I said, "Hey, Barbie." I mean...Barbie? Come on. "I was hoping to have a word with the manager, Phillip Drake."

  "Do you have an appointment?" She was typing into the computer, eyes on the monitor. I assumed she'd pulled up his appointment calendar or whatever it was they used to manage such things.

  "I do not."