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

by Mona Marple

  “Well, you were all warned, dearies.” Vera sings out, collecting a large takeout cup from the counter. “I can’t be responsible for ignorant people who don’t listen.”

  “So you admit being a killer!” A second voice calls, and I glance around the coffee house and see Violet Warren, sitting alone in a far corner, focusing on looking at the floor. She clearly wants no part of this.

  “Is this a court of law?” Vera asks with a cackle. “I’m sure your handsome Sheriff can find me if he wants me. Oh, I wouldn’t object to him wanting me.”

  “Eww.” Sandy whispers. “TMI.”

  “He is pretty hot.” Coral says.

  “Man killer!” A third voice calls out.

  “Hmm, has a ring to it. Thanks loves, I might add that to the next tour. Bye for now!” Vera calls, and totters out of the coffee house.

  “People really think it’s the curse?” Sandy asks. “Who would believe that kind of thing?”

  “We’re not in Waterfell Tweed now, Sandy.” Coral says. “Who back home would believe we were sat here with our dead mother?”

  “True.” Sandy says, then looks at me, as if checking I am in fact still here. “So, mum, do you think it’s the curse?”

  “I have no idea.” I say. “But I have been thinking about this thing of closing the town. It didn’t happen straight away, did it?”

  “It was the next day.”

  “So the killer had plenty of time to leave.”

  “Especially with poisoning, it’s not always a quick death. They might have left even before Bruce Skipton died.” Sandy says.

  “We need to track his movements before he died.” I suggest. “A man that powerful must keep a diary. Probably had a secretary too.”

  “Well, yeah, but isn’t that for the police to do?” Sandy asks.

  “Your sister’s been dragged into this.” I say. “I’d say it’s up to us to clear her name.”

  **

  The offices of Skipton and Self are on the more questionable outskirts of town, near the DQ , and suggest that Bruce Skipton was as miserly with his office as he was with his children. As expected, the shutters are down and the door’s locked.

  I take a deep breath and steel myself to walk through another door, closing my eyes and forcing myself to focus on my breathing. I seep through the door and find myself inside what could easily be a 1970’s secret investigator’s office. There are two plastic chairs in the reception lobby, with a huge corner desk facing them. Behind the desk, filing cabinet after filing cabinet, and a door with a sign that reads The Boss.

  That door’s unlocked, and gives the distinct impression of being a show office where exactly zero work is done.

  I return back through to the front door and turn the latch, letting my daughters illegally enter the murdered man’s workplace, as any respectable mother would.

  “Now you girls can’t touch anything, okay?” I say. “See anything? Just let me know.”

  “You don’t have fingerprints?” Sandy asks.

  “Nope, left those behind with my physical body.” I say with a shrug. This stuff is so mundane to me now. Connie will kill us if she knows we’ve been in here.

  I move to the secretary’s computer, a bulky machine that’s as deep as it is wide. I touch the mouse and the screen comes to life, revealing a desktop photo of a woman so bronzed and leathered she looks almost snake-like. She sits in a beach bar, cocktail in hand, sunset behind her. She could be 27 or 77 in that bizarre timeless way some women have.

  “There’s no password.” I say with glee as the screen loads up. “How would I find his diary?”

  Sandy appears behind me, directing me to the eMail programme and, from that, to the calendar tab. I note with interest that Bruce Skipton should be in NYC today for a meeting with Bears and Cohen, whoever they are.

  “Go back.” Sandy says, and directs me to the back button. Maybe I could be tech-savvy, after all. With these girls around, I kind of feel like I could do anything I wanted.

  “Hmm.” I say. “Should we write this down?”

  “On it.” Sandy says, and I turn to see that she’s already pulled a tiny notebook and pen from her handbag. “So, this is the day before he died? 2pm meeting with Sirius Thoms. And 11pm site visit. That must be at the Baker House? Why would he go so late?”

  “Because he had no permission to be there.” Coral calls from the window, where she’s keeping lookout, peeking out from the dusty blinds.

  “So he had to go after hours. Sneaky.” Sandy says.

  “Shall I check the day he died?”

  “Yeah.” Sandy says, and helps me move a day forward in the calendar.

  “Empty.” I say. “Well, nothing until the flight to JFK.”

  “So we need to speak to Sirius Thoms. Who’s he?” Coral calls.

  “Sirius Thoms…” I say, testing the word in my mouth. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

  “Maybe an out of town associate?”

  “The kind of person with opportunity to come in, poison him over a lunch meeting, and disappear before he dies.” Sandy ponders. “Let’s see what we can find about him online.”

  I go to move the mouse.

  “Stop!” Sandy calls out. “Not on here, all that stuff’s checkable. I’ll look on my phone later.”

  “Guys, there’s a car approaching. I think we should go.” Coral calls from the window.

  “Maybe they’re going to the DQ?” I ask.

  “Maybe.” Coral says with a shrug. “But I don’t want to risk getting caught in here. Is there a back door?”

  We all pile into Bruce’s office, where a fire exit leads out to the back of the building. There’s nothing out there apart from wasteland, so we check that the coast’s clear and dash across to the DQ.

  A waitress with hair the colour of cigarette ash flashes us a smile, revealing a gold front tooth. “Y’all eating?”

  “Just drinks, please.” We say in unison. She shows us to a booth near the window, and we all gaze out as the snake-skinned woman from the desktop picture climbs out of an old sedan and trudges across to Skipton and Self, letting out a throaty cough as she enters the building.

  “That was close.” Sandy says, eyes wide, but she’s already tapping Sirius Thoms’ name into her phone.

  “Who is he?” I ask, peering in close.

  “He’s a lawyer.” Sandy says, holding the phone up to show us a photo of him. Incredibly tall, with large ears and receding hair, he looks like a regular joe.

  “Probably a property lawyer.” Coral says. “Just a normal run-of-the-mill meeting. That guy’s no killer, look at him.”

  “He does look fairly average.” I accept.

  “You can’t pick a killer out by their looks guys. He’s still worth looking into.” Sandy chastises.

  “But where is he?”

  “Well.” Sandy says, tapping into her phone more. “He posted online this morning, moaning about being caught up in the lockdown.”

  “So he’s still here.”

  “And there aren’t many hotels in town.”

  “We’ll find him.” I say with a grin, confidence coursing through my veins. “We’ll blow this case wide open!”

  We all burst into laughter as the waitress returns to our table, because sometimes, when the whole world is going mad, the best thing to do is to laugh along.

  “You gals are awfully jolly today, huh?” The waitress says, mascara smeared across the crease of an eyelid.

  “Oh, you have no idea.” I say, and I look across at my girls and know that no matter what happens, I have to find the real killer and clear Coral’s name. I owe them that.

  6

  Connie

  You could say I’m crazy, putting Hallowe’en decorations up in the middle of a murder investigation. Especially when my niece is the prime suspect. I wouldn’t argue with you.

  The thing is, I need a bit of normality in my life.

  Just for once, I want to forget about ghosts and murder
and witches and curses, and do something humdrum. And since I hadn’t got around to putting up the decorations in the rush to prepare for the girls’ arrival, I figure that now is the time. I’ve got the house to myself and nothing better to do.

  The Christmas tree gets set up first, right at the side of the staircase, so it’s the first thing you see when you walk in my home. The tree will stay up until the New Year now, its decorations changing from Hallowe’en themed to Christmas focused on November 1st.

  The tree’s artificial, which is a bit of a no-no in this neck of the woods (no pun intended), but it’s less hassle than going out and picking a real one and taking care of it. What do people even do with real Christmas trees after they’ve taken them down? I don’t think I’d like a dead tree on my conscience every year.

  I stand the tree up and attach the arms, pulling each branch out and arranging them so the tree looks as lush as possible. Taking a step back, I appreciate my work and take a sip of water, then rummage into the Hallowe’en decorations box.

  Strands of skeletons act as tinsel, looping around and around the tree. A vintage witch found in a thrift store sits atop the tree, her beady eyes appearing to watch me wherever I stand. I sit plastic spiders on some of the branches, and add squishy eyeballs in other places. The end result is macabre, but fun.

  Next, I find Mr Bones, the life-size skeleton, and am walking him out of the house just as Patton Davey is about to knock on the front door.

  “Oh, erm, hey you two?” he asks, puzzled.

  “Meet Mr Bones.” I say, walking past Patton and out to my car, where I settle the skeleton in the passenger seat. Let’s face it, he’s the best offer of male company I’ve had for a while. I close the door and return up the path, where Patton continues to hover by the front door. “You can go in, please. Don’t stand on ceremony.”

  “Sure, sorry.” Patton says, but he still waits for me to enter before he does. “This place looks festive.”

  I pull a wreath, covered in bats and spiders, from the box and walk it across to the front door, attaching it to the small nail that sits in the door year-round. I’ve got a thing for wreaths.

  “I want to celebrate.” I say, simply. It really is that simple, I realise. “Sage isn’t here, by the way. She was going to the coffee house, but she’s been a while. Want to hang around for her?”

  “Sure.” Patton says. “Want a hand putting this stuff up?”

  “Not really.” I say. “I can be a bit particular about where things go. Stay and chat to me, though. How’s things going in the world of Sheriff Davey?”

  The former Sheriff loves having the title used for him. I guess it’s similar to the US Presidents, they never really go off-duty after their term’s ended.

  “Can’t complain.” he says. “I’m troubled by this murder, of course. Sheriff Morton’s doing a good job, though. I have to admit that.”

  “Well, good.” I say. The rivalry between the living Sheriff and the dead Sheriff has been intense at times. It’s good to hear Patton give Taylor some credit, I think to myself, ignoring the swelling of pride I experience at the compliment. Taylor’s a friend, nothing more. And I’m happy for all my friends when they do a good job. “I’m stunned he managed to keep Vera and the Vamps in town. I’d have thought their celebrity status would have got them a free pass out of town.”

  “Celebrity status doesn’t matter much when it comes to the law.” Patton says, but I’m not that sure I agree. I think back to my clumsy comment to Coral, about how our finances couldn’t get her bail. Surely the system favours the famous, the rich. “I’ve been meaning to speak to him actually, to Taylor. See if he wants any help.”

  “I could ask him for you.” I say, my eagerness surprising me. I feel my cheeks flush. “I mean, if you wanted me to. I know you two don’t have the easiest relationship.”

  “Hmm.” Patton murmurs, but he doesn’t push it. I set up Igor, the gruesome butler whose brains leak out of his head, by the front door. The most horrific of my Hallowe’en decorations, I hid him further indoors at first, expecting him to scare the neighbourhood trick or treaters. Turns out that kids love him. I guess my idea of what’s terrifying is a few decades old.

  “Isn’t this guy great?” I say, unsure of what else to talk about. I touch the tray he holds - a tray that I’ll fill with candy soon - and he comes to life, his head jerking around, eyes shining red, before the showstopper - a whole section of his head falls away to reveal his pulsating brain inside. It makes me laugh every time.

  “Erm, yeah.” Patton says, clearly not as impressed as I am. You can’t account for some people’s taste. “So, Connie, how are things going with Sage’s daughters?”

  “Oh, erm, pretty good I think.” I say. “The murder has interfered with their plans a little, got in the way really, but I think it’s going well.”

  “They’re nice?”

  “They’re lovely.” I admit. “I wish I’d been there for them over the years.”

  “Why weren’t you?” He asks. It’s a straightforward question, meant with no malice, but it feels like a dagger in my heart.

  “I don’t have a reason.” I admit. “Not a good enough one, anyway. I was busy, I was nervous they’d reject me. But I should have been there.”

  “You think she’ll go back with them, when they leave?” He asks, fiddling with a spider from the tree as he talks.

  “Oh, wow.” I say, the question stopping me in my tracks. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “I can’t imagine she’ll want to let them go. Who would? And they’ve got lives, they won’t move here.”

  “You’ve really put some thought into this, huh?”

  He nods. “It’s been on my mind.”

  “Well, thanks. Now it’s on mine too.” I say, with a wry smile.

  **

  I can’t believe my ears.

  “You seriously broke into a building?” I repeat. The girls are high on adrenaline, plotting together as if this is all a big game.

  “Well, I opened the door for them, so they didn’t really break in.” Sage says with a shrug.

  “It’s still illegal entry.” I say, not even knowing if that’s a legal term. I’m pretty sure a group of trespassers can’t suggest that everyone after the first one in is innocent because the first one in allowed them entry. I’d hope our legal system would bust them all.

  “And we didn’t get caught.” Sage spells out for me, again, her eyes wide with frustration.

  “It doesn’t matter.” I bark. “It’s a stupid risk for them, not you. How could you let them?”

  “Erm, Aunt Connie.” Coral says quietly. “We’re grown ups. We weren’t forced to go in there.”

  “That doesn’t matter. She’s your mother. She should have never let it happen. You guys all need to back away from this now. Leave it to the professionals.”

  “And let them decide that Coral’s guilty because she happened to find the body? No way.” Sage says, steely determination in her tone.

  “Well, what are you planning?”

  They share their news with me. The meetings Bruce Skipton had, and their plans to speak to those people, and go back to speak to the secretary. I have a bad feeling about it.

  “The secretary won’t talk.” I say, instinctively.

  “Oh, I think she’ll be flattered we’re giving her attention.” Sage says.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Her desktop pic is herself.” Coral says with an amused shake of her head. A tendril of auburn hair falls across her face, she tucks it behind her ear.

  “Oh.” I say. “Okay, so you think she’ll talk. To the cops maybe. But not to a merry band of amateur investigators.”

  “She’d talk to the press.” Sandy suggests.

  “I could interview her. Big it up about how she’s the closest to knowing the real man behind the rumours.” Coral offers.

  “I’ll come.” Sage says.

  “No.” I say. “I’m putting my foot down
on this one. I’ll go with you Coral. From now on, if you guys are looking into this, you do it with my involvement. And no more stupid risks or breaking the law, okay?”

  The three of them look like a group of scolded teenagers as they each bow their heads and nod their agreement.

  “Come on then, let’s go.”

  **

  The snake-skinned woman is filing her nails when we walk into the office, singlehandedly ruining all of the work done by dedicated secretaries the world over to correct their image. Although, in fairness, the woman’s boss has died. I guess she legitimately might have no work to do.

  “Well, howdy. How can I help y’all?” She asks, continuing to file one incredibly long nail as we stand before her.

  “Coral Shaw, investigative journalist.” Coral says, holding out her hand towards the woman. “This is my colleague, Connie Winters. I’m working on a piece about the awful death of Bruce Skipton, and I wondered if I could take up some of your time to get to know the man behind the rumours.”

  The woman is like putty in our hands, locking the front door and ushering us into Bruce’s office, which is pristine.

  “This is where he worked.” She points out unnecessarily.

  “It’s very tidy. Was he a neat freak?” I ask.

  The woman laughs. “Oh heck no. He was out and about. Needed to have an office, just for appearance sake, but he was never in here.”

  “I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Y’all can call me Barb.”

  “Okay, Barb. How would you describe Bruce?”

  “Mr Skipton.” She corrects, and I recoil a little at the old-fashioned formality. “It was always Mr Skipton. He was a very professional man. It was for his friends and family to call him by his first name. He’d say that.”

  “And what was he like? To work for?”

  “Once you get your head around things, it’s a lot easier. Like no knocking on a Tuesday, because he’d have his girl in there.”

  “Huh?” Coral says.

  “No knocking on a Tuesday, cos he’d have his girl in there.” Barb repeats, as if that clears things up.