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

by Mona Marple

  “It’s important that the Sheriff stops crime and solves crime.” Patton grunts. “Nothing to do with being popular or making decisions that everyone agrees with.”

  “Hmm.” I say, flashing him a bright smile as we take our seats. Sheriff Morton sits on stage, his eyes flitting across the room anxiously until he finds Connie’s face. He gives her a boyish smile. What is going on with those two?

  “Doesn’t pull the crowd we do, huh boys?” The unmistakable cackle of Vera Warren calls out from the front door as she parades in with her band following. Kim Kane keeps his gaze on the ground, while the drummer - I want to call him Mud but surely that can’t be his name - winks at anyone who catches his eye.

  How bizarre for them to be caught up in the lockdown, stuck here until they get permission to leave. I heard on the news that they’ve had to cancel stadium shows but that the press attention around the murder and the curse are more than making up for any lost earnings. There’s even a rumour that Vera has been offered a TV deal hosting a ghost hunting reality show.

  Taylor Morton clears his throat. “Good evening. Thank you all for coming out tonight, I appreciate it.”

  “Have you caught the killer?” someone shouts from the crowd.

  “Erm, I will answer questions.” Taylor says, avoiding the question in his promise to answer questions. “I’d like to give a general update about the situation first, if I may.”

  He pushes his glasses up his nose and I feel Patton tense beside me, so I reach across and take his hand in mine.

  “We’re still investigating the murder of Bruce Skipton. I can assure you that full police resources are being focused on finding his killer and making sure they are punished. In the meantime, we all need to remain on high alert. The town lockdown has given us the best chance of preventing the killer from leaving. That means there is a high chance that the killer is among us, living in Mystic Springs with us.”

  “How long’s the lockdown going to last?” someone shouts.

  Taylor sighs. He’s not a bad public speaker when he’s reading from a script or working through a pre-planned speech, but these questions are unnerving him. He glances at Connie again.

  “Ok, erm. How long’s the lockdown going to last? It’s hard to say. I’ll say at this stage that I won’t be voluntarily letting it end while the case is open. Naturally, I need to get more and more authority to keep it running longer, but I will carry on seeking those permissions as I need them.”

  My heart races. Maybe Sandy and Coral won’t be able to fly home. If they can’t get their flight in a few days, surely they may as well stay? Booking flights is such a hassle. I let out a small, entirely inappropriate laugh, but luckily nobody’s paying attention to me, not even Connie or Patton.

  “We can’t keep cancelling shows.” Vera Warren drawls. “We’re losing more money than you’ll ever earn in your pathetic life.”

  “And think of the fans.” Kim Kane adds. “Thousands of people are disappointed every time we cancel a gig. It’s not fair, man.”

  “Okay.” Taylor says, pushing his glasses up his nose again and sitting forward in his chair. “Let me make this clear. The lockdown applies to everyone and nobody’s getting special treatment. Let me also say, if I was going to offer special treatment, it wouldn’t be to celebrities.”

  “Hell yeah!” A rowdy voice calls. A teenager, probably. “Morton for POTUS! You tell ‘em!”

  “Can I raise a serious question?” A timid voice calls, and I glance across and see that Ellie Bean, proprietor of Screaming’ Beans Coffee House, has her slender arm raised.

  “Sure.”

  “There’s no coffee in town.” She says.

  “No coffee?” Taylor asks.

  “Hey, I ran out too.” Someone calls.

  “And me!”

  “What do you mean no coffee in town?” Taylor asks.

  “It’s all just disappeared overnight. I went to Bill’s and it’s the same thing there.”

  Taylor surveys the crowd. “Are you telling me that the whole town’s coffee supply has disappeared overnight?”

  “It’s the witch!”

  Taylor sucks his bottom lip for a moment, then shakes his thoughts away. “I’ll look into it.”

  “Oh, no need, Sheriff. Let me save you the hassle.” Vera Warren says, rising to her feet. Her booty is barely concealed in a leopard-print, skin-hugging dress. The woman has legs to die for, despite her octogenarian status. “I cast a little spell! Isn’t it fun?!”

  “I’m not doing this.” Taylor says, clearing his throat. “We’re here to discuss the safety of our town and the murder investigation, not coffee. Now, if nobody has any other questions, we’ll call it a night.”

  “Is the Hallowe’en Ball still happening?” Someone calls from the audience.

  Ah, a good question at last. The Hallowe’en Ball, set for Hallowe’en night itself, is the showstopper, the main event, to end the Hallowe’en Extravaganza. I’ve been looking forward to it for months. And, it’ll be one of my last nights before Sandy and Coral fly home. If they’re allowed to.

  “With any event like that, what we have is a risk assessment situation.” Taylor says.

  “Does that mean you think the killer will strike again?” Someone shouts, approaching hysterical in their tone. “If that’s the case Sheriff, shouldn’t we be evacuating? Not all being held here like sitting ducks?”

  “There’s no need to panic.” Taylor says. “There is a need to be alert. From my profiling of the killer, I do not personally believe there will be another killing.”

  “Can you talk us through that profiling, Sheriff?”

  “Well, what we have is a poisoning. Poisoning gives none of the visual stimulus of other forms of murder. The killer usually doesn’t get to see their victim die. There’s no fear in the eyes, for example. That would suggest we don’t have a person who has killed for the sake of killing. And, again, acquiring poison and facilitating its use all requires some degree of planning. This was not an act of passion, then, but a deliberate, planned killing.”

  “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.” someone says.

  “He’s spot on.” Patton whispers to me. “He actually knows his stuff when he’s not pulling dick moves like this.”

  “I do believe it should give some comfort.” Taylor says, with a wry smile. “We must, of course, never lose sight of the fact that a man has lost his life in a dreadful, painful way. But as we move forward as a town, the fact that this appears to have been a planned and deliberate murder should offer some comfort to us.”

  “The murderer needed to shut him up!”

  “That’s very likely.” Taylor agrees. “And it’s my job to figure out why.”

  “Have you looked through his last movements?”

  “Enquiries are ongoing.” Taylor says, back to police speak.

  “So, the Hallowe’en Ball?”

  “I can’t see any reason to cancel the Ball.” Taylor says, and a cheer goes up around the room. A man may be dead, but don’t stop us partying! “I’ll advise that security measures are put in place. The venue will need changing.”

  The Hallowe’en Ball was to be hosted in the high school auditorium, the biggest space in town. It would have hosted the Vera and the Vamps gig but final repairs were being done on it in readiness for the Ball.

  “What? We’ll never find another venue at this short notice!” Someone calls. “You politicians are all the same! You say yes and then move the goal posts and make it impossible.”

  “That’s not what I’m doing.” Taylor says with a smile. “And I’m not a politician.”

  “You’re not? I always thought Sheriffs were politicians.”

  “Anyway.” Taylor says. “The requirements will be a register logging everyone who enters and leaves, and a new venue. I’d like to say no alcohol too, but I don’t think I can realistically impose that. Just, please, drink sensibly.”

  “Erm, Sheriff Morton?” A distinguished vo
ice comes. Finian Archbold rises to his feet, tall, liver-spotted, white-haired.

  “Yes?”

  “My castle is available.”

  And the crowd goes wild.

  “Please, ladies and gentlemen, let the Sheriff consider my offer.”

  “Mystic Castle?” Taylor asks, as if there are several castles nearby.

  “Indeed.” Finian says. Kooky and eccentric in that way that only the mega-rich can be, Finian had the castle built to his specifications so it combines an authentic aged appearance with all mod cons, including underfloor heating throughout.

  “You’d open your home for the Ball?”

  “Of course.” Finian says. He loves that place nearly as much as he loves to show it off to people. Of course he’ll open it up to the whole town.

  “I’ll think on this and confirm tomorrow.” Taylor says. “Perhaps we could discuss the details privately?”

  “Certainly.” Finian says. “Come and see me. That way you can take a look around.”

  “Lots of hiding places in a castle.” Patton whispers to me. “Too much privacy.”

  “Why does that matter if there’s no risk of another murder?”

  “There’s always risk, Sage. Profiling is sophisticated guesswork, but it’s still guesswork.”

  “I think we should perform at the Ball.” Kim Kane’s voice comes from the crowd.

  Taylor shakes his head. “Wily thinking but there’s no budget left.”

  “I mean, free of charge. We’re here anyway, and we sure know that Vera has some goodwill to build up.”

  Vera cackles from her seat but doesn’t object.

  “I’m going to consider all of these points and confirm tomorrow. Anyone wanting to have a discussion with me, I’ll run an open office tomorrow afternoon. Mr Archbold, I’ll see you in the morning. If that’s everything, we can wrap this up.”

  Taylor pauses, giving the crowd chance to consider anything else they’d like to ask. The crowd is silent.

  “So, you haven’t caught the killer yet?”

  “As soon as the murderer is apprehended, you’ll know.” Taylor says, then rises to his feet. “That’s all for now. Thanks again for coming out. Goodnight to you all.”

  **

  “He was seriously making eyes at you.” I whisper as we remain in our seats, waiting for the other rows to file out before us.

  “Oh, hush.” Connie says. “As if he could see anything with the lights on him. He looked so uncomfortable up there.”

  “He did until he found your face. Something you need to tell me, sis?”

  Connie shakes her head as a flush of carnation sweeps up her cheeks. “Come on, there’s a gap now, let’s go.”

  I roll my eyes and stand up, floating out after Patton.

  We stand around in the evening air, a crowd unwilling to be separated. People split into groups of two or four people, each small group buzzing with gossip, theories and rumours.

  Violet Warren appears then, alone, head down, and attempts to sneak through the crowd unnoticed.

  “Hey.” I call out to her. She looks at me and reluctantly walks across to us. For such a larger than life character, the colour has drained not from her skin but from her clothes. Her usual bright, bold colours have been replaced by black jeans and a black pullover. Even her accessories are muted. “What happened to you? You’re dressed for a funeral.”

  She glances down and shrugs. “It doesn’t feel safe to be me right now.”

  “Your sister’s a menace.” Patton says, holding no punches.

  “Tell me about it.” Violet agrees. “She’s been doing the coffee thing since she was a kid.”

  “Surely you can talk to her, tell her to behave?” I ask. “The Baker House can’t stay off limits forever.”

  “I can’t tell that old witch anything. Trust me, if I get involved, it’ll just get worse. I just want her to forget I’m here.”

  “What happened between you two?” I ask. “I mean, my sister can be a total bore but I can’t imagine being so cut off from her.”

  “Erm, I’m right here.” Connie says.

  “I know, I’m teasing.” I say, and blow her a kiss.

  “Honestly, I can’t help. I only came out tonight to hear what the Sheriff had to say. I’ll be keeping a low profile now.” Violet says, and scoots away into the darkness.

  “She’s not the only one acting strange. “ I say with a frown.

  **

  “Where were you tonight?” I ask as Patton closes the Baker House’s front door behind us.

  “I didn’t think anyone could fart in this town without you being involved.” he adds.

  “Oh, erm.” Atticus says, sheepish. “I’m, erm, keeping a low profile.”

  12

  Connie

  The conversation with Violet stayed on my mind so much last night that I barely slept. The way her outfit, her whole presence, have been robbed of their colour and personality, breaks my heart a little and terrifies me even more.

  Surely, nobody knows Vera better than her sister? And if she won’t stand up to her, doesn’t that say something about how scared we all should be? How much damage she could do?

  There’s nothing else for it.

  I need to visit Violet and get the full scoop.

  **

  Violet Warren lives in a sprawling waterfront mansion, the biggest in town although there’s a lot of competition. When I say biggest, I’m not including the castle, of course.

  She made her money as an artist and if I read the right kind of society magazines, I’d probably be able to give you a potted history of the Warren family.

  Oh, okay, here goes.

  The Warren mother was, apparently, quite psychotic. Which may or may not explain Vera’s behaviour. Bouncing from mental institution to herbal remedies, to wealthy boyfriend to jail at one point, she was described by contemporaries as being dangerously wild.

  If you know where this is going, bravo.

  She was a witch, of course.

  The most powerful witch of modern times, if you believe the reports. And society couldn’t accept her witchcraft, so did all it could to control her and reign her in.

  The great Venus Warren found her daughters a constant disappointment. Again, if the reports are to be believed.

  You could say that both of the Warren daughters, although they surely suffered at the hands of such a chaotic upbringing, did benefit from their mother being so infamous. Both of them perhaps found that their respective paths; art and music, were a little more welcoming than they would have been to two unknown girls. When they knocked on doors, doors opened a little easier, even if it was with whispers behind their backs about the poor childhoods they must have had and things they must have witnessed.

  Violet, for whatever reason, shuns the media who are desperate to court her. Mystic Springs allows her some anonymity. She’s known, but nobody’s really that interested in her or her background. The most interesting thing about her, to us, is her wacky dress sense. Whether or not her mum was the most powerful witch in living memory is a little irrelevant in a town of ghosts.

  **

  Violet answers the door in a zebra print fluffy housecoat, her bare feet sporting bright coral painted nails, her legs not as firm as her sister’s but still impressive. She’s a painter. She spends her time on her feet.

  “Yes?” She asks, wary of my intrusion. We know each other and can pass the time with idle chat, but I’m not her friend. I don’t really have the right to turn up unannounced on her doorstep. And yet, here I am.

  “Morning!” I chime. “Can I come in?”

  “I guess.” Violet says, opening the door and peering out to check I’m alone. She locks the door after me and leads me through to a small, spartan space featuring what looks like a prayer mat on the floor and a large gong in the corner.

  “This is nice.” I say.

  “Meditation room.” she explains, and sits down on the mat and crosses her legs. “I was part way throug
h my morning routine, do you mind?”

  “Oh no, of course not.” I say.

  Violet closes her eyes and places her hands on her knees. I sit and pull my cell phone out of my bag, wondering whether to reply to Taylor’s offer of a night out yet or leave him wondering a little longer.

  “Phone away, please, it affects the energy.”

  I tuck the phone away without a word and decide to close my own eyes and try to join the meditation. Sage is always banging on about meditation and karma and chakras. I don’t know where my EFT points are or how to channel my inner anything, really, but this beats sitting and staring at the gong.

  The minutes pass excruciatingly slowly. I’d have preferred Violet to ask me to come back later. I could have grabbed a coffee - well, a tea - at Screamin’ Beans and pondered over the perfect way to word a message declining an invitation.

  I know Taylor Morton only wants to take me out because I washed his darn dishes. It’s not necessary. And I don’t want to be seen out with a platonic friend. Imagine the rumours. It’d get back to Sage and I’d never hear the end of it. She’d want me to talk her through every piece of stilted conversation and every menu choice so she could try to psychoanalyse what it all means.

  It means he’s grateful I washed his dishes, I shout. Crap. I’ve actually shouted it. Out loud.

  “Oh, for goodness sake.” Violet huffs, rising up from the floor without even using her hands to help push her up.

  “Sorry.” I offer weakly.

  “You young people have no respect for connecting with your inner self.” she moans.

  Tell me more about me being a young person, I’m tempted to ask, but we’ve not got off to the best start.

  “What do you want, anyway? I’ve got work to do.” she asks, as I follow her through to the living room, a room that’s like an artist’s representation of the jungle and its wildlife. Dark green walls, animal print furniture, and an enormous array of pot plants. The combined effect is one that makes me feel slightly claustrophobic.