Murder, Ye Bones
A Penning Trouble Mystery 3
Rachael Stapleton
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Copyright © 2018 Rachael Stapleton
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.
Bohemian Lake Cozy Mystery Collection by Rachael Stapleton:
A Penning Trouble Mystery
Murder, She Floats
Murder, She Slopes
Murder, Ye Bones
Haunted House Flippers Inc.
Cookies, Corpses & the Deadly Haunt
Candy Canes, Corpses & the Gothic Haunt
Crumble Cake, Corpses & the Run-of-the-Mill
Bohemian Murder Manor Mysteries
Gypsies, Traps & Missing Thieves
Make-Believes & Lost Memories
The Time Traveling Bibliophile
Book 1: Temple of Indra’s Jewel
Book 2: Temple of Indra’s Curse
Book 3: Temple of Indra’s Lies
Book 4: Temple of Indra’s Witch
Read all about Rachael Stapleton and her books at RachaelStapleton.com
Prologue
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T he island’s cemetery off the coast of São Paulo, Brazil, was picturesque when seen by the dazzling light of the moon, with shaded copaiba trees and ten-foot rows of sugarcane. There were no manicured lawns or polished stones, only trees that dazzled in their diversity—banana, coconut, and fishtail palms, as if mother-nature ruled supreme.
Two women wandered in the dark with shovels in hand, stepping carefully around the gravestones.
“Where are we going?” Lise Trix asked, nervously watching the low ground fog swirl between the gaps in the sugarcane.
“Not much further,” the Voodoo Queen said, pausing to lift her lantern high. “If you’re afraid, we can turn around.”
Lise shook her head. She hadn’t been afraid before —it had all seemed like a game—but now she wasn’t sure of anything. As the moon slithered behind a cloud, she stared at the tiny saplings that grew from cracks in the headstones, they seemed to carry with them the promise of the supernatural.
Everything seemed so menacing when the shadows deepened, especially the headstones that were sunk so deep into the topsoil you could no longer read the dates.
Ugh. She was a fool ever to have thought that this would be an adventure.
“Here we are,” the Voodoo Queen said.
“And what now?” Lise demanded, looking around. She could feel a tickle of worry wrinkle her forehead. They had passed a mausoleum, and now stood by a small broken wall, where mist curled around the oldest plots that were laid out against the sugarcane at the back of the church yard.
“Now, my friend, we find out just how committed you are. Dig.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, so soft that Lise felt a sudden chill.
Lise flicked her eyes up to meet the woman’s gaze. She had the most unique orange, cat-like eyes. She didn’t recognize this woman. This was a stranger—a very scary stranger whose eyes practically glowed in the dark as she motioned for Lise to dig. So, she did as she was told.
Lise told herself that the ominous tone was all part of the voodoo queen’s act, but even so, she shuddered.
“Did you bring the picture of your true love?”
“Yes.”
“And the woman you offer in sacrifice?”
“Yes.” Lise paused in her task and took the photos from her pocket and looked down. Emilion Grastari’s dark brown eyes stared back accusingly at her from the photograph on top. She handed them both over.
The Voodoo Queen approved with a solemn nod as she accepted the gifts. “Good. Now drink this, my friend.”
The Voodoo Queen held up a small bottle filled with an inky liquid.
Lise stared at her.
“It’s herbs, Lise, just herbs. But they create magic.”
Lise wanted to refuse. What was the matter with her? she wondered. She’d trusted her friend; that was the problem. Her childhood friend had recommended the Voodoo Queen. She said she had a talent for knowing what was going to happen—like the Vianu ladies. Not only could the Voodoo Queen foretell the future, she could make things happen—things like love.
This was an adventure, Lise told herself, and maybe—just maybe—the potion would work.
The woman was standing in front of her, smiling in her shawl and tignon. She pressed the small bottle into Lise’s hand and helped her lift it to her lips. The concoction was sweet, not bad tasting, but it carried an aftermath of fire that sent slivers of steel running through her blood.
Suddenly crimson darkness descended, making a stygian pit of the cemetery, a fiery globe of the moon.
A shadowy demon paced menacingly toward them and he carried something in his arms.
“What is that?”
“Don’t you mean who, Lise, who is that?”
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Lise said. Her voice sounded like a whimper. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
The Voodoo Queen laughed, making her large hoop earrings shake, frightening her further. “It’s too late. The wheels are in motion. You know that better than anyone.”
Lise wished she had never come. Why had she allowed her friend to set this all up?
But she didn’t want to run away either and leave the Voodoo Queen. Something told her to do so would be to seal her fate.
And yet, what were her choices?
Stay and tamper with the dead, or flee through a boneyard of shadowy cherubs and decomposition, with only her thundering heart to guide her?
“In seconds, my sweet, you will be on the road to all that your soul craves. You came to me for help. You wanted love. You wanted revenge. Now, it’s time to get everything you deserve,” the Voodoo Queen said. She sprinkled what looked like blood and bits of bone across the disturbed earth of an old grave, then lifted her arms to the moon and began to chant. The words were jumbled, a mix of Portuguese and something more ancient. As Lise watched her, she felt herself becoming almost spellbound. It was as if her limbs were made of marble like the statues that surrounded her, and any desire to flee left her. The tombstones and ominous vaults, even the gargoyles, began to appear as natural a setting as the front entrance of the Caravan Manor, welcoming her back.
That inward voice shrieked at her to run, but it was too late.
The shadow demon approached her, pure evil, but she was paralyzed. She couldn’t move, and no sound escaped from her lips. Whatever had been in the black drink was paralyzing her. She could still see the Voodoo Queen, standing there now with a pleased smirk, and she pondered whether the promises had been no more than a trick. She saw and felt the essence of the zombie girl beside her, heard the rasp of its fetid breath, and in that moment, everything was so clear but it was too late—oh, God, far too late—to know and see and understand, to know that this had nothing to do with a love spell. Her friend had led her astray.
Chapter One
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G reen mountains, emerald waters and golden beaches. The archipelago off the mainland of Brazil was a kaleidoscope of natural wonders. The water, I knew, went from sloping sand to a sudden drop-off leading to a misty world of tangled plants and fish. I was looking forward to getting into my scuba gear later to get a closer look, hopefully it would be corpse-free. One
never knew when one was going to stumble upon a dead body, panic and almost drown—or was that just me?
In the meantime, I wandered down the sandy beach, half-empty coffee cup in hand, to dip my toes in the line of surf that marked the water's edge of São Paulo. The sunshine felt good on my pale skin. I’d worn my hair in a top knot, so the sun’s rays were particularly warm on the back of my neck.
There was nothing as glorious as the salty São Paulo air, except for maybe the three mini coconut rolls I devoured while waiting for Danior Vianu to return from one of the shops. She’d just picked me up from the Airport and I was feeling more than a little punch-drunk from all the travel. Drunk was okay, but punch drunk was bad—I blamed it on the airsickness medication.
I closed my eyes, relishing the start to my Island vacation—well, not technically a vacation; somehow, I’d been roped in to working a case at the Paranormal Plantation Resort. A colonial mansion which used to be a mortuary on the beautiful island of Ilhabela. It was owned by Danior’s cousin, Yasmin Donazan—who I’d secretly nicknamed Morticia Addams. I’d never met her—but really, who else bought a resort with a reputation like that.
The hotel catered to an eclectic group of socialites, rock stars, and kooky artists. Shocking, I know. To add to its mystery, it had private huts and cabins that looked more like run-down haunted houses from a movie set. And given that it was almost Halloween and I had no desire to star in a slasher film, I’d opted for a nice safe room in the main house.
Yasmin had spent every last cent buying the place six months ago and her fingers were crossed that it would pay off. Unfortunately, she was having some staffing issues and so Danior and her boyfriend Emilion Grastari had flown down a week ago to help out for the month. Apparently, the paranormal reputation was a little too real for some, especially since a couple of the guests had recently gone missing. The most recent being Lise Trix—the annoying receptionist from Caravan Manor—Danior’s words… not mine.
Lise had decided to tag along, much to Danior’s excitement… err… annoyance. Since Lise was due for a holiday and she’d offered to pay her own way and work for free, Nana and Yasmin had both agreed. She hopped the next flight out following Danior and Emilion by a day, but she never showed up at the plantation and now Nana was worried. So, it had been a rush job to get me here. She’d hired me two days ago and booked all of my travel which had gotten me out of Bohemian Lake’s annual Haunted festivities and though I enjoyed scaring the crap out of the local kids, who was I to turn down the salty sea air and a sunburn? I’d say suntan, but who are we kidding, I’m a ginger. Not that I’d let that stop me from trying. These freckles weren’t going to connect their own dots.
I opened my eyes again and watched the horizon, allowing the waves to hypnotize me before I made my way back up the beach path to town. In my hypnotic state, I walked smack into something solid.
“Ouch!” I grabbed for my forehead where hard little teeth had dug in—wooden beads. Were rosary beads back in fashion? Wait, were they ever in fashion? Well yes, there was Madonna. Somehow, I doubted this guy revered Madonna as a fashion icon. And I did know it was a guy, even before I looked up. The beer and testosterone-tinged sweat was a dead giveaway, despite the fact that he was wearing a dress. Okay, not exactly a dress, but in fact a long white robe.
“Shoot! Sorry!” I yelped and jumped back, now expecting to see a cross between Madonna and the Pope. Yeesh, I shivered at the thought.
Instead I saw a middle-aged man who lowered his sunglasses ever so slightly, revealing narrowed blue eyes. I had the feeling I was about to get a tongue lashing for my carelessness instead he tugged the glasses back up and ambled around me for the beach. I guess, given that he was in a dress, a headwrap and wearing a necklace, the man decided to keep his pride intact and say nothing. Smart move!
As soon as he was gone, I hurried on my way. Danior would be worried if I wasn’t at the café on time, and we didn’t need another missing young woman on the Island.
I had just returned to the Villa by the Sea Café & Bookstore and resumed my seat when Danior appeared. Her usual long dark hair was now cut to her shoulders and highlighted to a golden blonde. I was still having trouble getting used to the lighter look. The Vianu women all had very dark features aside from Nana who had started to silver.
“Sorry I took so long,” she said, pulling up a chair. “I got sidetracked in the music store. Look, I bought a set of bongos.”
I smiled and nudged the take-out bag across the table. "Of course you did, my little hipster friend. Here, have a coconut roll. Only one left and all of my shorts are already too tight,” which is why I favor dresses—they’re friendlier to curves.
Danior didn’t have that problem at all. At eighteen, her metabolism was a small volcano. Add in the four inches she had on me in height and she was basically a really nice stick.
She reached bright yellow-lacquered nails across the table and snatched the bag along with my coffee cup—taking the last swig of the café’s signature chocolate peanut roast.
I reached for my cell phone, still safely tucked into my dress pocket. "Do you think Wraith has arrived yet?”
“Not yet. His flight landed after yours,” Danior replied.
Daemon Wraith was a friend of Nana Vianus who also happened to be dating Danior’s sister, Mallory. He was an ex-FBI agent who now owned a private Paranormal Investigations firm, and the cases he took generally had an inexplicable, even supernatural, twist—which I thought was hocus pocus, but what did I know? Apparently, nothing because rumor had it—and by rumor, I mean Eve and the spy network of Bohemian Lake—the FBI still used him as a consultant at times.
This was apparently good enough for Nana who thought a private investigator and a ghostbuster-wannabe could get to the bottom of the disappearance of Lise Trix and the other girls faster than the local police force.
Nana had a love-hate thing for the police department, although she loved my boyfriend Police Captain Cody Lumos, she hated following the rules. I guess that kind of sort of described me and every other Bohemian Lake resident.
I rolled my eyes to the blue sky, squinting in the light. “I bumped into a curiously dressed man on my way.” I looked in the direction of the beach. “He had on this long white robe and head wrap, and he was wearing rows of beads around his neck. Then I saw a poster for a Candomblé festival with similarly dressed women and the poster looked very voodoo-esqe. What’s the deal with this place? I thought Brazil was mostly Catholic?”
“It is, but believe it or not, there’s a big Voodoo following here in Brazil. Yasmin tells me Candomblé worships Vodun with animal immolation and spirit possession, sort of like Santería in Cuba or Vodou in Haiti.”
“Really? Any head shrinkers? I should invite my ex down. Point him in the right direction.”
“I think you’re mixing up your religions.” Danior smirked.
“C’est la vie. Fitness has always been my religion.” Not to say I was a CrossFit nut or anything. Shudder. I just really loved punching things and so I’d taken up martial arts at a young age. I also liked to run, and not just from zombies, big dogs or my friend Eve—I liked to run first thing in the morning to set my day off right.
Danior looked at her cell phone and stood. “We better get a move on or we’ll miss our ride."
I fell in step beside her as we double-timed it along the ocean’s walk to a white-and-blue flat-bottom boat that was the dedicated ride for the Paranormal Plantation Resort. It bobbed against the old-fashioned wooden dock, samba music pumping from its speakers, and once again I wished I were actually here to vacation. We jumped on and the driver, swept off his cap, offered a toothy smile, and gave us an exaggerated bow. “Welcome, ladies."
The boat ride to the resort took about twenty minutes and we docked right on the beach below the resort.
I stepped out of the boat just as Danior’s boyfriend, Emilion, jogged up, looking far more casual than usual in white shorts and a turquoise t-shirt. I had only
ever seen him in his Caravan Manor costumes, which ranged from sensual gypsy man to silly carnival character. He didn’t have a lot of range.
He kissed Danior’s cheek. “How was the mainland?”
“Busy,” Danior laughed, and handed him her shopping bags.
“Ah, but I see you still managed to find some time to shop.”
“Of course. Come on, Pen, let’s get you settled,” Danior said, reaching for my suitcase. “Then we can introduce you to Yasmin and Adriano.” He pointed to the pathway that was thick with fishtail-looking leaves, and I led the way. “I know Yasmin’s eager to fill you in on the missing girls. The local police haven’t been much help.”
“Who’s Adriano?” I asked, enjoying the warm air with its fake promise of relaxation.
“Adriano is Yasmin’s boyfriend. He’s also the local contractor who’s been helping her fix up the place.”
I glanced back at the lovebirds armed with more questions but found they were busy. Never mind. Young love was so gross.
Turning back, the mansion caught my eye. Set among cypress trees and an expansive green lawn, the main building was an old plantation house with classic Greek Revival architecture. Majestic square columns ran across the front of the building and, as far as I could tell, marched down either side, supporting a second-floor wrap-around balcony. Each floor featured a wide, welcoming veranda. What a sight to behold. Instead of dripping with bright colors like Pepto-Bismal pink that you so often find in warmer countries, the decor was sophisticated, pared down—lots of dark wood, cream tones, and gauzy white fabric.
They took me in a back entrance, stating there was a tour going on in the front area. The tours the plantation gave covered topics ranging from the indigenous tribes who inhabited the island before it was colonized by Portugal in the 1500s, to the coming of the first British explorers, the pirates, and the Confederados who fled to Brazil after the Civil War. They did haunted tours of the grounds on weekends and there was a special event coming up on Halloween. Apparently, this year’s theme was the Haunted South, so I was predicting hoop skirts and dead soldiers, but we’d have to see.
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