Murder Ghost Foul: The Complete Mystic Springs Paranormal Cozy Mystery Series

by Mona Marple

  “What happened overnight to make him suddenly confident he’d solve the case today?” I ask aloud.

  Patton is pacing up and down the corridor, appearing in the room every few moments before leaving and repeating the trip. “I’ve got it.” He says suddenly.

  “Yes?” Atticus asks.

  “He decided to.” Patton says. “He decided he was going to, that’s all that happened.”

  “I don’t understand.” I say.

  “Well, face it, we’ve been pointing him in the right direction for days and the only thing stopping him has been himself. I think, for some reason, he decided he was going to do it today.”

  “But why?” I ask.

  “That’s the bit I haven’t figured out.” Patton admits.

  “Hold on, what about CCTV?” Atticus says. “If there’s CCTV of this building, it’ll show who the killer is?”

  “Assuming the same person killed them both.” Patton says. “They’re very different attacks.”

  “True.” Atticus says. “But worth a try.”

  “And, Emelza’s murder was probably planned. If it was the same person, they did this in a panic because they realised Taylor knew what they’d done.” I say.

  “Well, how do we check the CCTV?” Atticus asks.

  I groan. I’ve been dead too long to know how things like that work. Atticus and I both look to Patton to help.

  “It should save on to the computer.” He says. He sits down at the desk and moves the mouse, firing the computer up. Fortunately for us, Sheriff Morton is still logged into the system, no password needed. Patton spends a few minutes searching the computer’s applications, then sighs and shakes his head. “There isn’t any. I’m not surprised. It’s just another expense they’ve cut down on.”

  “Well, while we’re in there, is there anything else? Any files he’s set up about the case?”

  Patton moves the mouse around as the computer pings and the preview of an eMail appears in the corner of the screen. “Hmm.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Let’s see…” Patton says, and opens the Sheriff’s eMail inbox. It’s empty, apart from the message that’s just arrived. “This isn’t good. There’s only one reason a man as messy as Morton would have a clear inbox.”

  “Something to hide.” I say. “But who from? Nobody comes in here checking his messages?”

  “They don’t have to. He’ll get them all on his phone too.”

  “He’s hiding them from Adele.” I say, as the realisation hits me. “Can you see what he’s deleted?”

  “Yep. He’s not that clever.” Patton says, and suddenly the screen is full of a list of thousands of deleted eMails. “Here we go.”

  “Ugh.” I say, as I see that most of them are from women.

  “Hold on.” Patton says. He opens one with a subject line that says for Adele’s eyes????????????

  The message has no content but an attachment.

  “Shall I open it?” Patton asks.

  “You have to.” I urge.

  He clicks, and we all gasp at the explicit image of Sheriff Morton, still in uniform, with a naked blonde woman straddling him.

  “Oh my.” I say.

  “He’s being blackmailed.” Atticus says. “Who sent him that?”

  “It’s an anonymous eMail.” Patton says. “The address is keepquiet@mail.com, it doesn’t give a name.”

  “Is it the woman?” I ask.

  “I doubt it.” Patton says. “You can clearly see her face. It wouldn’t make sense for her to do it. And, look at the date on the image. It’s from years ago.”

  “So he might not be cheating any more?” I ask, hoping for Adele’s sake that he has changed his ways.

  Patton shrugs. “Who knows? But why would this woman appear now and blackmail him?”

  “I agree.” Atticus says. “Someone’s found this image and they’re using it as leverage.”

  “Have they sent him anything else?”

  Patton does a quick search. “Just one, here… it’s from the same address. No content again, just a subject line. It says 7/26, remember remember.”

  “7 out of 26? What does that mean?” I ask.

  “I have no idea.” Patton admits. He pulls up a web browser page and types the words in, searching for cultural references that may have gone over our dead heads.

  “It’s just how to do percentages.” Atticus says, studying the computer screen. “Hold on, 7/26, it’s a date!”

  “Of course.” I say. “I still think of dates as 26/7.”

  “So, 7/26…” Patton says, and a chill runs through me.

  “It’s the date Emelza Shabley was killed.”

  We fall silent, and I glance across at the calendar that remains intact on Sheriff Morton’s office wall.

  “Was he reluctant to solve the case because of this?” I ask. “I don’t understand what it means.”

  “Or was he reluctant to solve the case because he did it?” Patton asks.

  “He stabbed Emelza, you mean?” I ask.

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “Then who shot him?” I ask.

  “Maybe he shot himself, to throw us off the scent.”

  “But we weren’t on the scent.” I say. “Nobody had even mentioned his name as a suspect.”

  “Someone had.” Atticus says. “The mysterious eMailer, and if he doesn’t know who that person is, how could he go and arrest anyone else? Or how could he know it wasn’t one of us, or Connie even?”

  I shake my head. “This is getting too crazy. I don’t know what to think any more. Would a person really shoot themselves?”

  “People do it all the time.” Patton says, which I have to imagine is an exaggeration. “As a cop, he’s trained, he’ll know where to aim.”

  “Where’s the gun?” I ask.

  “He had one in his holster.” Patton says.

  “He did?”

  Patton nods. “I checked. He should always have one on him when he’s on duty, so I just glanced to see if it was on him.”

  “Okay, so let’s say Taylor killed Emelza. Why?”

  “I don’t have that figured out.” Patton says. “Money problems, maybe? He’s got two babies and a wife out of work. Maybe he went across to convince her to give him the journal, so he could sell it, and she put up a fight?”

  “Hmm.” I murmur, unconvinced.

  “What if we’re looking at this the wrong way?” Atticus says. “What if Sheriff Morton didn’t kill Emelza, but whoever did knows his secrets, about his past, and used the photos to make sure he stays quiet?”

  “That would explain why he didn’t want to go out and arrest anyone. He can’t arrest the person who did it, and if he’s got any decency left in him he doesn’t want to arrest an innocent person.”

  “You could be on to something.” Patton says.

  Behind us, someone begins to clap. I turn to see Wilson Bruiser, dressed as flamboyantly as always, tapping his one hand against his other arm.

  “You guys are adorable!” He exclaims. “Standing around here playing detectives.”

  “What do you want, Bruiser?” Atticus asks.

  “I just thought I’d hang with the cool kids for a while. Don’t you think it’s insensitive, standing around here chatting? A man died in here, for goodness sake!”

  I shift a little and look down. He has a point.

  “We have two murders to solve, Bruiser. Time is of the essence!” Atticus says. “Now, you, on the other hand, you’re only here to cause trouble.”

  “I’m wounded, old pal, by your words.” Bruiser says, clutching his chest as if he too has been shot. “I really had none of this disrespect when I was in charge around here.”

  “Oh give it up, nobody believes your lies.” Patton says.

  “A lot of people are dying over a book that’s full of lies…” Bruiser says in a sing-song voice. He’s so smug I’d like to punch him.

  “Have some respect.” Atticus says.

  �
�Do we even know that Taylor’s dead?” I ask.

  “That’s a good point. And if he isn’t, he’ll remember what happened. Want to confess, Bruiser?”

  “Sure.” Bruiser says. “I’ll confess. My biggest sin by far has been loving too many beautiful women. And a few ugly ones too, if I’m telling the whole truth.”

  “You’ve never loved a woman in your life.” I spit.

  “Come downstairs with me and I’ll show you what my love feels like.” He says with a grin.

  “Eww.” I moan.

  Patton meets my eye and then steps forward, in between me and Bruiser. “You leave her alone. She’s a lady.”

  “Ha! You old swines are no fun. I’m out of here.” He says, and off he goes.

  “He’s so full of rubbish.” I say.

  “You know, once we find his journal, we might be in a better position. Let’s go back to Emelza’s waggon and have a look for it.” Patton says.

  Emelza’s waggon’s been taped off now, but the tape has been in better condition. As we approach, a group of teenage boys stand around on the outside of the tape, passing a cigarette between them, daring each other to step closer.

  “No way man, it’s haunted!” A little ginger kid shouts, all freckles and hair so spiky it looks like he’s been recently electrocuted. “You go!”

  “Fine.” The other boy, taller and clearly the leader, says. “Here, hold my smokes.”

  He passes the cigarette to the ginger kid, and then creeps under the tape, where he punches the air in celebration of his bravery.

  “Go inside!” A third boy calls, and he’s the muscle of the operation. He refuses the cigarette when it’s offered to him and instead picks up a stone from amongst the grass and tosses it at the waggon.

  “Hey!” Patton cries, and the sight of him makes all three boys scream and run into the night. “The little morons!”

  “Just leave them.” I urge. “They’re kids.”

  “Kids with no respect. This is a crime scene.”

  “It’s where a woman took her last breath, more importantly.” Atticus says, giving Patton a long glare. “Never forget the human life involved in crime, Sheriff.”

  “Sorry.” Patton says. They get along so well because Patton’s quick to apologise, I think.

  “Come on.” I say. Surprisingly, the waggon is untouched inside. The brave gangs of kids who are visiting it at night clearly haven’t found the courage yet to step inside, although that will probably change with time. “Let’s look everywhere.”

  We spend an hour in silence trawling through every drawer and cabinet without finding the journal. Patton looks under the mattress in Emelza’s bedroom, and I check under the kitchen sink. Atticus appears in the living area, looking dejected.

  “It’s not here.” He says. “We’re searching in vain.”

  “It’s better to look and not find, than just not bother looking.” Patton says. “But I think we’re done. We’ve looked everywhere.”

  “How about outside?” I ask. “Maybe she hid it somewhere nearby.”

  “It’s just grass.” Patton says.

  “It isn’t, actually.” Atticus says. “There’s an old bunker not far from here.”

  “I’ve never heard about that.”

  “Nobody has, for years. I’d be amazed if Emelza Shabley knew of it. But gypsies pass information down from generation to generation more than the rest of us.”

  “Can you take us to it?” Patton asks.

  “It might take a bit of trial and error, in the dark, it’s been years since I’ve thought of the place. But, yes, I’ll find it.” Atticus says. He leads us out of the waggon and we follow him across the field in the dark of the night. We wander around aimlessly for a while, circling ourselves, before Atticus leads us back closer to the waggon.

  “It’s well hidden.” Patton says.

  “You’d never know it’s here, unless you knew.” Atticus says. “It really is the perfect hiding place. I don’t know why I -”

  He stops talking, and stops moving.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He looks around, then bends down in the grass and begins to tap the ground. “Aha, it’s here.”

  The door to the bunker is tiny, smaller than you’d think possible for a person to fit into, which makes it even less obviously a bunker. Atticus manages to prise it open, every pull tiring him, until finally it bursts ajar.

  “I’m not going down there.” I say.

  “Fine, wait up here then.” Patton says, already climbing down into the hole.

  “Oh, alright, I’ll come.” I say, not wanting to stay above ground alone.

  The bunker opens up into a small space, the top paneled with wood, the bottom just soil. An ancient blanket lies in one corner, long ago discarded.

  “I don’t like it down here.” I say.

  “I’ll keep you safe, Sage.” Patton says, and he gives my hand a squeeze. “Let’s check here.”

  He lifts the blanket, revealing a small wooden box, which opens easily.

  “We’ve found it.” Patton says, and he holds up the treasure; a dusty, tattered old journal.

  “Should we read it?” I ask.

  The three of us are back in Connie’s attic. Atticus has fallen asleep, tired out by his efforts to open the bunker door, but Patton sits, wide awake, by my side. There’s no sign of Connie, and I try not to imagine what might have happened at the hospital; the bad news that Adele was given.

  “I don’t know.” Patton says. “This whole crazy situation has been caused by that thing. I kind of don’t want anything to do with it. It’s like it’s cursed.”

  “The only person cursing anyone around here is Violet Warren.” I tease.

  “Nah, she’s a good witch.” He says. “You can read it if you want.”

  I pick up the journal and open it to the front page.

  “The Life and Times of Wilson Bruiser Esq; Adventurer, Discoverer, Pioneer.” I read aloud.

  “Well, at least we know it’s the genuine article. Nobody else would describe him that way.”

  “Jealous?” I ask, an eyebrow raised.

  “I’m not keen on a man who sends flowers to you. I guess that does make me jealous.” He admits. “But, as we’re just friends, I don’t have any right to feel that way.”

  I bite my lip and swallow. If Patton Davey wants to be my friend only, he’d better get used to other people sending me flowers, because I am pretty gorgeous, if you don’t already know.

  “Anyway.” I say, turning the page. I read the rest in silence, partly because Wilson’s handwriting is atrocious, but partly because I’m sulking. How dare Patton tease me, leading me on that he wanted more than just friendship with me? How dare he!

  The journal isn’t as grand as the myth around it has made it out to be. It’s one long letter, really. The ramblings of a vain man.

  “Well.” I say, when I finish. “That’s that.”

  “What does it say?” Patton asks. His eyelids are heavy, I see. We’re all ready for bed.

  “Nothing at all really. It’s like a diary of the women he’s infatuated with from one day to the next. It makes a comment about him being the rightful mayor, which suggests to me that he wasn’t actually the mayor, and that’s that.”

  “Do you think Emelza read it?”

  “I doubt it.” I say.

  “How underwhelming.” Patton says. “To think she lost her life because of it.”

  I shake my head, lean back in my chair, and close my eyes. Within a moment, I’m fast asleep.

  18

  Connie

  “Connie Winters?” The female officer asks as she approaches me. I stand in the hospital corridor, rooted to the spot, the anguish of the day finally hitting me. I manage to nod my head at her. “We need to speak to you today. Sorry that it’s so late. Trust me, none of us want to be doing this now, but we can’t let you leave without talking to you.”

  “Sure.” I say, and I allow them to lead me into a dark room o
ff the corridor, not unlike the doctor’s office. The male officer flicks the switch and the room is illuminated by a single, glaring, overhead strip light. I squint my eyes against it. They give their names. Instantly forgettable, so I instantly forget them.

  I collapse into a low chair and close my eyes for a moment, until the male officer clears his throat.

  “We hear that Sheriff Morton’s stable. That’s, erm, great news.” He says. I wonder if he’s ever met Sheriff Morton. He doesn’t appear particularly moved by the news that one of his professional brothers has been shot and seriously injured.

  I nod again, lacking the energy for pleasantries. If they have questions, I’ll answer them, but I can’t give them more than that right now.

  “So, um, you wanna talk us through what happened today?”

  “I attended the police station and found Tay - Sheriff Morton. I called the ambulance.”

  “So, let me get this right?” The female says, as she scribbles notes. “You attended the station and found Sheriff Morton. Had he already been shot?”

  “Yes, of course he had.” I snap.

  “Sorry, we just need to have all the details.” She says, her cheeks flushing. She’s young, still following procedure as if life is a dot-to-dot puzzle. Don’t go to dot 3 until you’ve marked off dot 2.

  “You told the dispatchers it was a gunshot wound. How did you know that?” The man asks, a little older, with a little more street smarts.

  “I wasn’t alone when I found him.” I say, and I note the look of panic flash between the officers. “Here in Mystic Springs, we have spirits. Well, I mean, spirits are everywhere, but we can all see them here. I was with three spirits.”

  “Spirits?”

  “Ghosts.”

  The female officer laughs nervously. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “Well, there is, and I was with three of them. Do you need their names?”

  They look at each other, panicked. There’s no protocol for this.

  “Erm, I guess.” The man says finally. I provide the names. The woman writes them down, then circles them and writes “GHOSTS?” next to the bubble. I withhold an eye roll.

  “And one of them told you it was a gunshot wound, is that what you’re saying?”