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

by Mona Marple

  “Oh, that’s a little dramatic, dear. I don’t think Mystic Springs will ever be quite like every other town, now, will it?” Violet asks with a wink.

  I shake my head as I look at the chaos that’s my ticket booth, until my phone rings. Seeing the home number, I pick up.

  “Connie?” Sage’s voice comes as a whisper.

  “What’s happened?” I demand. She never rings.

  “I have a dilemma. I just realised I arranged to see the concert tonight with Patton. But do you think it’ll be a bit much? Introducing the girls to my dead… friend?”

  I clear my throat. “I don’t know, Sage. Is that all he is?”

  “Well. He’s never asked me out. Sure, we hang out a lot, but…” I let her voice wash over me as I remember what it was like to be a teenager with a boy-mad sister. When she wasn’t able to bounce her dating dilemmas off her cool friends, because it was after curfew, she’d sneak into my bedroom and talk endlessly to me about Darren or James or Sid or Goose or whichever boy she was interested in that week. And I’d lap it all up, knowing it was the closest I was going to come to that heady rush of childhood love.

  “Look, Sage, I’m busy right now. I think Patton will understand if you want some time with the girls instead of him. It’s up to you.” I say, glancing at the time. “Are things going okay?”

  “It’s like a dream.” Sage gushes. “A dream come true.”

  “Good. Well, say hi to the girls for me, and I’ll see you later.” I say. I end the call and glance across at Violet, wondering how cheeky it would be to ask her to help me out with my share of the work after she’s done all of her own share. She’s not looking at me, though. Her gaze is focused on the sidewalk, where a huge RV has just pulled up. A tour bus.

  Vera and the Vamps have arrived.

  Vera herself is tiny in that way that only famous people seem to master. Her thighs are the size of my wrists, and her head looks too big to be supported by her tiny frame, especially when you factor in the hair. Raven-black, trailing all the way down to her sacrum (that’s the bottom of her back if you don’t know your bones), her hair is a mix of straight and glossy strands, and snakes. Real snakes, dancing around on top of her head. She’s a real-life medusa.

  “Are they real?” I whisper across to Violet, who appears as stunned at the sight of her sister as I do.

  Violet shrugs, and then she’s spotted.

  “Sister!” Vera calls, tottering across the foyer in needle heels. Behind her come a group of musicians, all ripped t-shirts declaring loyalty to predecessors. The lead musician, who I can identify because of the magnetic energy that pours off him in waves, has half a head of jet-black hair down to his chin, and the other half shaved bald. A designer beard hangs down towards his clavicle, where the tattoos that cover his skin begin.

  I recognise him from the magazine articles that speculate about him far more than they get to interview him. Kim Kane. Lead singer of The Vamps, guitarist, heartthrob and devout vegan. For what is veganism if it’s not a religion.

  I think for a moment how much Sandy and Coral would love an autograph from him, then have to force myself to remember they’re grown women. Not the kids I remember them as, or the teenagers I was vaguely aware they must have grown into.

  “Fancy seeing you here!” Vera squeals towards Violet, and I know in that moment that this has all been fabricated. Somehow, by someone. Vera and The Vamps are far too successful to be performing in Mystic Springs.

  A premonition passes through me and I shudder.

  “How nice to see you.” Violet says with a tight smile, her gaze flitting from her sister’s face to the dancing snakes.

  “Oh, don’t worry about these girls. Sleep now, my precious.” Vera says, and with a click of her fingers the snakes stop dancing and curl up on her head, creating the impression of an intricate up-do. They can’t be real. They must be some kind of advanced animatronics, surely? As I ponder this, Vera turns her attention to me for a moment and flashes me a wink identical to the one her sister just directed at Atticus.

  “Nice to meet you.” I say, hoping to remove the tension by inserting myself in between the Warren sisters. “Thanks for coming out for this.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” Vera says with a swipe of her hand. An electronic alarm buzzes from somewhere within the pile of cases being pushed in on a trolley by a runner with a beer belly.

  “Ma’am.” He says, with a cough, small beady eyes looking near, but not at, Vera.

  “Pill time!” Vera sings out, her crimson lips bursting into a wide smile. “Well catch up later, sister.”

  “Hmm.” Violet says, noncommittal.

  “Ma’am, where’s the green room?” The runner asks, looking near but not at me. This guy has serious eye-contact issues.

  I shrug. My involvement goes no further than ticketing, but I know for sure our modest Town Hall has no green room. The only space I can think of is the cloak room, sometimes used to park strollers.

  “Follow me.” I say, finding Violet’s gaze and rolling my eyes towards her. I need to start saying no to volunteering.

  I lead the group across the lawn and into the Town Hall by the side entrance, which opens straight into the cloak room. The room is as bare as normal, and I laugh nervously as we enter.

  “There’s nothing in here.” Vera says. She’s observant, I’ll give her that. One of her snakes lets out a low hiss. “Oh, shush, it’ll get sorted.”

  “We sent the list.” The runner says, standing the trolley in the corner of the room.

  “This won’t do.” A voice as soft as silk comes from behind me and I know without looking that Kim Kane has spoken. darn it, forget Sandy and Coral, I’m a middle-aged woman with a crush on a vegan rock star. This is embarrassing.

  “Run, what was on the list?” Vera asks, ignoring Kim.

  The runner begins to search through bags, emptying side pockets, unzipping small suitcases, growing more and more sweaty as he does. The snakes begin to collectively hiss. If I hadn’t spent the last forty years of my life seeing dead people, I’d think this whole thing was too surreal.

  “We need coconut water, stat.” A grungy older guy in a string vest pipes up from the back of the crowd. I think he’s the drummer.

  Vera turns to me and lifts her chin, trying to close the distance between our heights. “These artists are sooooooo temperamental. Would you be a love and fetch some things?”

  “Sure.” I find myself saying. I don’t even pause to consider the request. I really need to get this issue under control.

  “I’m guessing a place like this, well, there might not be too much choice?” Vera asks, sugar sweet voice dripping with condescension.

  “Actually, we have an excellent independent supermarket.” I say with pride, and the thought flashes through my mind. I wonder how long Bill’s would stay in business if a cheap, chain store was opened in town.

  “Marvellous! So cute!” Vera gushes.

  “Got it, ma’am.” Run, the runner, exclaims, offering a scrap of paper that appears to have come from his rear end jean pocket. He holds it out to me and I cautiously accept it, unfolding it to see a list scrawled in the most beautiful, flowery handwriting I’ve ever seen.

  “Okay. I’ll be, erm, going.” I say, buying time for someone - anyone - to offer some money to pay for this list. My purse is at home so that Sage and the girls have access to cash if they need any. It’s clear that these people live in a world where money doesn’t change hands, though, and I have no time to waste, so I let myself out of the cloakroom and dash back across the lawn.

  Violet, like a true hero, is sorting my ticket booth for me.

  “Violet, have you got twenty dollars?” I call across to her. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a $50.

  “She’s never paid her way.” She says with a shake of her head. “They say the rich get things for free. Ain’t that the truth.”

  I don’t mention that Violet herself is also rich, making a fortune from her
art work and calling the biggest property in Mystic Springs home. The Warren sisters have both done well for themselves. Maybe they’re more similar in some ways than they’d like to admit.

  “I can’t get over the snakes. They can’t be real, but they look so real!”

  “Hmm.” Violet says, not being drawn into the conversation. I take the hint and leave her to finish my work, and jump in the car to drive across town to Bill’s.

  A crate of coconut water, seventeen packets of mints, three cacti, a small portion of ready to eat tofu, a portion of steak tartare, and a bucket of fried chicken.

  It’s not the shopping list I would have expected from them, and I wonder if they reigned in their selections because they were heading to such a small town. I load the car and head back to the Town Hall, where a queue has begun to form on the grass.

  “Here’s your change.” I say, offering the notes to Violet.

  “Keep it. They might send you off again later.”

  “Oh.” I say, the vision of my relaxed evening watching the show disappearing. I wonder what Run the runner does and why he couldn’t have made the trip to the shop.

  I knock on the side door and wait.

  Ten minutes later, Run opens the door, a finger over his mouth. I nod my head and enter as quietly as I can.

  The group are sat, cross-legged, around the room, eyes closed, chanting softly under their breath. Candles have been lit and spread out across the floor.

  “Meditating.” Run whispers to me.

  “For how long?” I whisper back.

  He glances at his watch, a Casio that looks as if it dates back to his childhood. “Hour maybe?”

  My eyes widen at the thought of sitting in that position for so long. I don’t think I’d get back up. I shake my head and step out of the room, leaving Run to close the door behind me.

  “You won’t believe what’s happening in there.” I call out to Violet at the ticket booths.

  She glances up at me.

  “They’re all cross-legged, meditating. I thought rock stars were meant to trash rooms!” I say with a laugh.

  Violet comes close and holds my gaze. “Connie, I don’t want to know. I’m here to help raise a lot of money for our town. I don’t want to know anything about what that woman is doing. Please understand.”

  **

  The show starts with less dramatics than their typical gigs do. There are no complicated sets, no smoke, no explosions and no dramatic appearances from trap doors or along zip wires.

  Instead, there is silence.

  Absolute silence until the crowd realise that they need to summon Vera and The Vamps with their applause.

  The noise in the Town Hall is so deafening that I’m considering leaving, until Vera’s voice rings out.

  "Roll up, roll up, it’s time for a show.

  Onwards to Mystic Springs we go.

  The spooks are out for All Hallow’s Eve

  Many will come, but not all will leave.”

  The crowd cheer in delight as Vera appears at the side of the stage, snakes dancing hypnotically atop her head.

  “Say hello to my babies.” She commands as she reaches the centre of the stage and turns, arms outstretched, to face the audience. The snakes slither and hiss as the audience is overtaken by a spark of intrigue and excitement. Everyone shares my wonder - are they real? “We thought we’d do something a little special for you all this evening, since we’re here in the town that my sister calls home sweet home.”

  Chatter fills the audience. Her sister?

  “You may know the good witch, Voilet? Well, I’m the bad witch. And I’m going to give you a show to die for.” Vera says, and the crowd goes wild.

  One by one she introduces her band until everyone is on stage apart from Kim Kane.

  “Oh, have I forgotten someone?” Vera ponders, and the crowd begin to chant Kim’s name. Suddenly, the front door bursts open and a guitar riff plays out. Kim Kane stands, topless and beautiful, in the doorway. He finishes his riff and then runs down the centre aisle, high-fiving fans before jumping on stage.

  “Mystic Springs. Let’s do this.” He says, and the show begins.

  I’ve heard people say that gigs in smaller venues have a magic of their own, an intimacy that a stadium concert can never offer, and by only the second song I’m inclined to agree. I can look into the eyes of these celebrities and see how much they love what they’re doing. I can feel their energy. I can almost smell their sweat, which I’m not saying I’m into, but it definitely adds another dimension.

  I search the crowd for Sage and the girls but can’t spot them. A few rows in front of me, Ellie Bean is strumming away on an air guitar, her lovely red mane of hair dancing with her movements. True to her word, Violet left when the last people had been shown to their seats.

  As the show draws to a close, the band bid us farewell and wish us safe journeys home, as if we’re going more than four blocks away, and Vera returns to the centre of the stage alone.

  “I promised you a show to die for. Have I done that?” She asks. The audience whoop and stomp their feet. Atticus won’t be happy about the foot stomping on this polished wood floor, luckily he made his excuses and left before the show started. “Good. Good. Now it’s time for your end of the deal. Who feels ready to die?”

  The audience continue to cheer, half of them too drunk to know what they’re cheering for.

  “Fabulous.” Vera exclaims. “To help you remember this special night, I’m leaving you a gift.”

  The crowd cheer again. My stomach flips.

  “The Baker House.” Vera drawls.

  Has she bought it? Maybe she’s bought it to save it from development?

  “I’ve placed a curse on the Baker House.” She says.

  A few people cheer, then realise what she’s said, and stop. Silence falls.

  “From this night on, anyone who enters the Baker House will do exactly what you’re all ready to do. They will die. Within a day. In an awful, painful way.”

  The crowd remains silent until one person laughs awkwardly. Others copy.

  “Happy Hallowe’en, Mystic Springs! Stay spooky!” Vera calls, and with a last hiss from her snakes, she saunters off stage.

  The crowd sit in silence for several moments until someone calls out from the front. “She was joking, right?”

  “Try it out, Piddington! Nobody would miss you anyway.” A young man slurs across to the first man.

  “Screw you Nader. Even your momma wouldn’t miss you.”

  I take a deep breath, stand up, and leave. A chill has fallen over the town and I’m not dressed for it, so I turn up the heating in my car and drive slowly through the deserted streets. The Baker House sits elevated and I see it before I reach it, lights on in most rooms as normal, ghostly apparitions in the downstairs sitting room.

  As I watch, the front door opens from within, revealing Bruce Skipton, who glances sheepishly around, then stalks away into the night.

  I stop the car and keep guard, but nobody else comes near.

  3

  Sage

  Can I tell you about my daughters?

  Just a little?

  They’re ah.ma.zing.

  I mean, seriously. It’s like, who are these grown women who are independent and sassy and absolutely gorgeous?

  In my mind, they’re still kids. Sandy, taking on way too much responsibility, like it was down to her to save the world from itself, but still young enough to believe in Santa and wear her hair in bunches. Coral, feisty, ready to bust her way out into the world and make a big impression. A little of my gypsy heart in that one, I tell ya.

  And now, here they are, the same and yet entirely different.

  “I can’t believe this.” Coral says as she pours herself a second bowl of sawdust cereal and adds lashings of milk. She’s said the same thing pretty much non-stop since arriving, as if every time she turns her back on me she expects I’ll disappear and the whole thing will turn out to be a dream. I don’t
blame her.

  Come across and see your dead mother! I mean, it’s pretty kooky, right?

  Sandy’s quiet, nursing a mug of cocoa.

  “You ok?” I ask, snapping her out of a daydream. She nods and gives me a smile.

  “It is all a bit crazy, us being together again.”

  “I meant how anyone can eat this stuff.” Coral says with a laugh, then a wink. “But, yeah, hanging out with you is pretty mad too.”

  “Connie’s trying to eat healthy.” I confide, knowing that Connie’s sensitive about the issue but thinking surely family share secrets. Maybe the girls can talk some sense into her. Like how to be healthy without resorting to eating rabbit food.

  “There’s healthy, and then there’s…” Coral says, but the chat is interrupted as Connie appears in the room. “Oh, morning Aunt Connie.”

  “Morning, girls.” She says, pale and small-eyed.

  “You look like the living dead, and isn’t that my job?” I quip. “In fact, what time did you get in last night?”

  “Late… well, early.” She says, stifling a yawn. Sandy’s out of her chair pouring a cup of coffee for her, ever the cafe owner. I half expect her to offer a cake and hand her a check.

  “What were you up to?”

  “Sitting outside the Baker House, making sure no stupid kids tried to get in.”

  “Why?” I ask, screwing up my nose.

  “You think the curse is real?” Sandy asks, her English accent still jolting me after so many years in small-town USA. My life in England feels like a dream in some ways, I’m so used to thinking in dollars and sidewalks. People say I still have an English accent, and Connie too, but I can’t hear it in us. These girls, though, it’s like the Queen’s come to visit.

  “Of course she doesn’t.” I scoff. Connie doesn’t smile. “Do you?”

  “I don’t know.” Connie says, fidgeting in her chair.

  Coral’s spoon clatters in her bowl dramatically and we all look across at her. “Sorry, my hand slipped.”