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

by Mona Marple

  Patton bites his lip and nods. “I don’t know what this is, Sage.”

  “Okay.” I say, because I was expecting anything but that answer. Patton works in facts, rights and wrongs, not maybes and half-truths.

  “I know what I want it to be.” he says, voice barely a whisper.

  “And that is?”

  He reaches across and takes my hands in his, holds my gaze. “You’re the most beautiful, incredible woman I’ve ever known, Sage. I’d like you to be mine, forever.”

  “As not just a friend?” I ask, laughing, but needing to know for sure. Needing to know more than I ever have before.

  “As not just a friend.” he agrees. “What do you want it to be?”

  “Your answer sounded good.” I say, suddenly meek, as I realise the dilemma I face. To introduce Patton would be to insult Coral’s loneliness, but to hide him away would be unfair on everyone.

  8

  Connie

  I make pancakes for breakfast, a pile of them so high it wobbles precariously as I carry it across to the table.

  “Ooh!” Sandy and Coral exclaim in unison. I share their delight. Stacks of butter pancakes were one of my favourite discoveries when I first moved to the US, and the novelty has never really worn off. Which, I guess, is partly why I’m now following the saw dust and water diet.

  I place the serving platter on the table and then make a show of drizzling maple syrup on top of the stack, before grabbing the tray of already cooked streaky bacon out of the oven and adding it to the table.

  “Tuck in, girls.” I say, and sit back and watch as they each scoop two pancakes and a few rashers.

  “You’re not having any?” Sandy asks, watching the absence of a plate in front of me.

  “I’m not that hungry.” I lie. Food is a tough relationship when you need to drop a few pounds. It’s hard to eat junk food without being aware of the world silently judging you - like she needs another burger! But choosing healthy foods has its own set backs - this is clearly her first visit to a salad bar! And then, choosing not to eat doesn’t work either - why’s she not digging in, she's clearly not anorexic?

  All of these comments, I should add, I’ve actually heard people saying about me. I’ve left my fair share of restaurants early, willing the tears not to come until I make it back to my car.

  “Oh, okay.” Sandy says, and the acceptance on her face gives me the confidence to accept that I’m hungry for more than sawdust cereal and skimmed milk.

  “Actually, I’ll have one.” I say with a grin, getting back up to grab a plate. The girls barely react. Clearly, my food intake isn’t a big deal to them. “Where’s Sage this morning?”

  “She’s on the porch. She seems antsy.” Coral says, glancing behind her towards the front door.

  “Hmm.” I say, getting up again. How I’m not a size zero is beyond me, really. “I’ll go check on her.”

  “And it’s a veranda.” I hear Sandy whisper to her sister as I walk away from the table. Pavement, sidewalk. Curtains, drapes. Autumn, fall. Chips, fries. I remember the learning curve well. In fact, I still go to the English word first a lot of the time. I guess some things are ingrained.

  I find Sage sitting on the rocker, looking out at the street. A yellow school bus drives past and ten little hands wave at me, high on the excitement of riding a bus. I offer an enthusiastic wave to them and feel glad I’m wearing a long-sleeved top so they can’t see how much the top of my arm jiggles as I do.

  “Hey, you. What’s up?” I ask.

  Sage turns to me, pulls a face, then looks back out at the road. “I’ve asked Patton to come over and meet the girls.”

  “Wow.” I say. “That’s a big deal. Do they know?”

  She shakes her head. “I couldn’t think of the words, so I just…”

  “Oh, Sage. I think the girls’ll be fine, but you should warn them. I mean, are you two…?”

  She nods. “We kind of made it official last night.”

  “TMI!” I protest, but her shocked face tells me to get my mind out of the gutter. “Oh, you mean he asked you, don’t you?”

  Sage laughs. “You’re a harlot.”

  “Chance’d be a fine thing.” I say, surprising myself as much as her. “Look, you keep your lookout, I’ll go and prepare the girls.”

  **

  “She ok?” Sandy asks in between bites of food as I return into the house.

  “She is.” I say, finally taking a seat and loading my plate with pancakes and bacon. “She’s waiting for someone to arrive, to meet you.”

  “Ooh.” Coral says. “Who is it?”

  “His name is Patton Davey. He’s a spirit. He’s the old Sheriff. And he’s your mum’s boyfriend. That word feels so wrong, but I don’t know a better one.”

  “Mum has a boyfriend?” Coral asks, her fork clattering on her plate.

  “They were friends, and it grew into something bigger.” I explain, feeling sure I’m making a total mess of the conversation. I’m hardly an expert in love.

  “That’s nice.” Sandy says, with a firm nod. “It’s good for her to have someone.”

  “But, what about dad?” Coral asks. “I mean, presumably he’s out there somewhere too? Why aren’t they together?”

  Oh boy. I take a deep breath, ready to mess up answering that question too, but the door opens, and in appears a coy Sage, Patton trailing behind her in his full uniform.

  “Well, hey! Look who it is!” I say, far too enthusiastically. “Come and take a seat, guys. Shame you can’t eat, this stuff’s good, ha ha!”

  “Thanks, Connie.” Sage says, glancing at me, checking my face for clues as to the girls’ reaction. I widen my eyes, hope that tells her something, and feel myself cringe internally.

  It’s obvious right away that the stakes were high enough for Sandy and Coral that they would get their head around their mother being a ghost, if it meant them getting to see her again. But Patton? A stranger, taking the place of their father? That’s a whole different story.

  They’re polite, of course. They’re English, remember.

  “So, you girls enjoying it out here in Mystic Springs?” Patton asks, sitting on the opposite side of the table to Sage.

  “Mm-hmm.” Sandy says, mouthful of bacon.

  “It’s nice.” Coral agrees.

  “Patton here was a great Sheriff.” I say, bolstering the conversation.

  “Oh, good.” Sandy says, looking up at him and giving him the kind of smile she must give customers in her cafe. That kind of weathered, I have to be interested even though I’m not interested, kind of smile.

  “Your mum talks about you two all the time.” Patton says, and a jerk of Sage’s head tells me those words aren’t true. It’s not like Sage to open up about emotional subjects, and nothing’s more emotional to her than her daughters.

  “Well, we are pretty cool.” Coral jokes, and the comment lightens the mood immediately. The girls are just nervous, I realise, and surprised. They should have been given time to get their heads around this.

  “So how long have you two been together?” Sandy asks.

  Patton glances across at Sage, who shrugs her shoulders. “It’s kind of been a gradual thing.”

  “You weren’t married or anything, Patton? No kids?” Coral asks.

  “Oh, heck no. Career first. When I was alive.”

  “Well, I guess if you’re happy, that’s all that matters.” Coral says. “Although this is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had in my life.”

  “It is pretty surreal. We just get our heads around being able to see you, mum, and now we meet your boyfriend.” Sandy agrees.

  “Does dad know?” Coral asks, then glances across at Patton. “Sorry, we could talk about this when he’s not here.”

  “No, it’s fine.” Sage says. “Your dad and I, we decided not to be together in the afterlife. It was a mutual decision.”

  “So you’re divorced?”

  “There’s no way for spirits to divorce.”
Sage explains.

  “Oh.” Coral says. “That seems like a bit of an oversight.”

  Sage lets out a low laugh. “Yeah, there are some spirits who would definitely like to end a marriage. But, luckily, your dad and I agreed amicably that we should go our separate ways.”

  “You don’t speak to him, or anything?”

  Sage shakes her head. “We met up once, after passing.”

  “And he was okay?”

  “He was fine. Spirits aren’t anywhere near as sad about dying as people imagine, you know. Death itself seems scary before it’s happened, but being dead is just kind of like the next chapter.”

  The group falls into a silence, interrupted only by the scraping of knives on plates as the living amongst us finish breakfast.

  “How long are you girls sticking around?” Patton asks.

  “Oh, just a few more days.” Sandy says. “We have to get back, for work.”

  “Not tempted to move across?” Patton asks, and Sage shoots him daggers.

  Sandy and Coral glance at each other. “No, Waterfell Tweed is home.”

  I watch Sage, see her expression fall. Sometimes it’s better to leave the question unasked, than risk hearing the answer you dread.

  **

  “I need your help.” Sheriff Morton barks as I open the front door.

  “Okay.” I say. “What’s happened?”

  “I’m doing an interview down at the station. The person has requested that you be present.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Who knows? Will you come?” He asks, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, eager to scoop me up and get on with his work.

  “Well, sure, I just need to get changed.” I say. I dive upstairs and grab a pair of black jeans, newly purchased in the smallest size I’ve seen in well over a decade, and pour myself into them, then pull on a deep maroon roll neck jumper. My hair falls in loose curls around my face.

  “Wow.” Taylor says as I return down the staircase. “You look great, Connie.”

  “Oh, this old thing.” I say with a shrug, begging him to move on to any topic other than compliments. “Let’s go.”

  We ride across town in a comfortable silence, local radio playing songs about pick up trucks and dirt roads, until we get to the police station parking lot.

  “So, the allegation here is first-degree murder.”

  I gulp. For some stupid reason I imagined this would be a petty crime, maybe a graffiti artist or a big misunderstanding about the borrowing of a bicycle. Murder? He’s asking for my help with the Skipton case?

  “You don't need to do anything. Just sit and listen. We’ve found hate mail at Bruce Skipton’s address, and the suspect we’ve brought in is the person I think is responsible for sending it. If I’m right, there’s a good chance we’ve got our killer.”

  “And it’s not Coral?” I ask, heart in my throat.

  “Oh geez, Connie, no it’s not Coral.” Taylor says, and he reaches across the centre console and gives my hand a squeeze. “Let’s go.”

  **

  In Interview Room 2, a spartan space with peeling paint on the walls and a formica table and four chairs all bolted to the floor, sits Atticus Hornblower.

  “You came!” He exclaims as I walk in with Sheriff Morton.

  “Of course I came.” I say. I’m not sure what choice I had, as a citizen, when the Sheriff turned up and told me he needed my help.

  “Let’s get started.” Sheriff Morton says. He starts the recording device and reads Atticus his rights, then shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Mr Hornblower, the allegation here is straightforward. A piece of hate mail has been discovered at Bruce Skipton’s property and I believe that you sent that to him.”

  He slides a piece of paper, tucked into a protective transparent wallet, across the table towards Atticus, whose face grows red as he reads it.

  I have to stifle a laugh. This is not the hate mail that I expected. No individual letters cut out of newspapers to avoid handwriting being identified. Oh no.

  This is a letter, in clear handwriting, that says:

  LEAVE THE BAKER HOUSE ALONE. OR THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES!

  There’s no name of the sender, or signature, but there really doesn’t need to be.

  Because the letter is on formal letterhead, letterhead that declares it is sent from The Office Of Atticus Hornblower, Mayor.

  I shake my head. What a mess.

  “Have you seen this before?” Taylor asks.

  “Well, of course. That’s my letterhead.” Atticus says. “I mean, I know I may not actively be Mayor anymore, but nobody else has been given the position, so I’m the closest the town has.”

  “Is the handwriting yours?”

  Atticus goes through the motions of studying the writing closely before giving a single nod.

  “I need you to answer aloud for me, sir. Is the handwriting yours?”

  “Yes, yes, it appears to be.”

  “Did you write this letter and send it to Bruce Skipton?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “It would seem so? Is that a yes or a no, sir?”

  “Well, my letter, my handwriting, it doesn’t take a genius, Sheriff.” Atticus says, arms crossed. Patton Davey will always be the true Sheriff in his mind, just as he will always be the true Mayor.

  “Okay, sir, can you explain why you sent the letter?”

  “Because Mr Skipton was planning to buy and bulldoze the Baker House, and I didn’t want that to happen.”

  “You threaten consequences.”

  “Yes, apparently.”

  “What did you mean by that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, sir, you wrote it.”

  “It was just a threat, wasn’t it. I wanted him to back off and leave the property alone. He could have bought and built anywhere. Why the one place in town where the spirits are left undisturbed? We don’t bother anyone by being there.”

  “But sir, you sent this threatening letter, and now Bruce Skipton has been killed.”

  “Yes.” Atticus says, stroking his beard. “It’s an unfortunate coincidence.”

  “Or is it clear evidence that you saw your threat through and poisoned him?”

  “I’d never hurt anyone.” Atticus objects. “I have a reputation to maintain in this town. I’d do anything for Mystic Springs.”

  “Including murder? To protect a building that you love?”

  “Well, no, that’s not what I mean. Sheriff, you’re twisting my words.”

  “I don’t have to twist your words, sir. They’re right here. There will be consequences.”

  “Like I say, it’s a coincidence. An awful coincidence.”

  “Ms Winters, what would happen to a spirit who was found to be guilty of murder?”

  “Erm.” I grapple for my voice.

  “Oh, please. I know as well as she does. I’d be banished forever. There’s no way I’d risk that.” Atticus says.

  He wouldn’t, I think. His love of Mystic Springs might cloud his judgement at times, but he wouldn’t let anything put him at risk of being banished from the place. Never.

  “Where were you on the day that Bruce Skipton died?”

  “In the Baker House.” Atticus says with a shrug. “It’s where I hang out, so to speak. I did begin a night patrol, after I heard that Vera Warren placed the curse, but I did that after Mr Skipton had been found.”

  “You were in the Baker House all day? You didn’t pop out, visit friends, see the gig, see your daughter?”

  “Leave her out of it.” Atticus growls, always fiercely protective of his daughter Mariam. She’s never quite recovered from his early death in a tragic horse riding accident.

  “So if I pull her in for questioning, she’ll tell me she didn’t see you that day?”

  “Don’t you dare! She’s got nothing to do with this!”

  “Sir, it’s my job to investigate. If I need to speak to your daughter, I will. Now, are you telling me you di
dn’t see her that day?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m telling you. I’m giving her some space.”

  “Has there been a fall out?”

  “That’s not your business.” Atticus says, although the question clearly wounds him. There has been a fall out, I know. Mariam has asked him for space so she can try to focus on the living world again.

  “Okay, sir, I’ll leave it there. I’m trying to do my job, I don’t want to upset you. Sometimes, though, if a person’s going through some personal difficulties, that could be when they become a little unstable. We see law-abiding citizens begin to commit crime because of things like fallouts with the people closest to them.”

  “That’s not what’s happened here, Sheriff.”

  “Alrighty then. So, to summarise, you accept sending this letter. You say you meant no harm to Mr Skipton. And you say it’s a coincidence that he’s been killed after receiving this letter.”

  “That’s pretty much it.” Atticus agrees.

  “I’m gonna level with you, sir, it doesn’t look good, does it?”

  Atticus sighs. “It’s clearly the curse, Sheriff.”

  “I’m not sure we can close the case with that kind of hocus pocus.”

  “With respect, Sheriff, you’re interviewing a ghost. So the hocus pocus is something you’ll just have to get your head around. Those sisters are witches, that’s a fact.”

  “Sisters?”

  “The Warren sisters.”

  “So that’s Vera, from Vera and the Vamps. And who else?”

  “Violet Warren, artist, lives in town, the big house right by the water.”

  “And she’s a witch?”

  Atticus nods. “She doesn’t shout about it like her sister, that’s all.”

  Taylor glances across at me but I say nothing. I’m here to listen.

  “I can’t close my file on the basis that it’s a curse.”

  “Well, that’s not really my problem.” Atticus says with a shrug. He needs to tone it down a notch, because if this case gets to a grand jury of his spirit peers, there’s a serious chance they’ll convict him and banish him for good. “And, I tell you something, I sent that letter before the curse.”