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

by Mona Marple

“She likes books!” Sage exclaims, as Patton floats in from the living room.

  “Who does?” He asks as he wraps an arm around Sage.

  “Taylor’s nanny,” I lie, “I haven’t got her a present. Was just asking Sage if I should.”

  “I don’t think there’s any need,” Patton says. “Taylor will get her one from all four of you, surely?”

  “Yes, yes, you’re probably right,” I say, ignoring his quick mention of the four of us as a family unit. I push the thought from my head just as there’s a knock on the door. Taylor.

  **

  The Christmas Meal Extravaganza is a glitzy affair; moved to the auditorium of the high school this year since nobody was too keen to sit and enjoy a meal in the Town Hall after Lionel’s death. It’s not the kind of occasion I’d usually attend, but Sage seemed so eager for us to go I could hardly say no. Even if I did have to stump up the cash for the tickets since spirits have no money.

  We arrive early, which is our style whenever we go out with Patton and Taylor. They both have fastidious timekeeping.

  The main entrance doors are ajar and we slip inside to escape the cold. A light snowfall has started and my heels aren’t cut out for the inclement weather.

  Taylor places a hand on the small of my back as we enter the building, and a thrill pulses through me. I firmly believe that couples can be happy together without the sparks of excitement, but I’m equally happy to experience them and can’t imagine a time when Taylor’s eyes penetrating mine won’t make me come over a little giddy.

  “Look at this place!” I exclaim as we enter the auditorium. The rest of the school is in darkness and free from decorations, but this room is breathtaking. A small stage stands at the far end of the room, where the principal leads assemblies and awards ceremonies, and around fifty tables for ten have been erected, each one featuring a festive centrepiece. The walls of the room are strung with garlands and an enormous Christmas tree is the focal point on the stage. Christmas music plays out from speakers hidden somewhere in the room.

  “I told you we couldn’t miss this!” Sage says with a grin. “Where are we sat?”

  I scour the room, expecting there to be a table plan, but can’t see one. A few people are here before us, already in their seats, excitedly perusing the menus that rest in front of each place setting.

  After a few moments of inspecting tables, I find our names on table four, which the four of us will be sharing with a family I’ve never heard of. They all have the same surname and I expect they will be focused on each other and won’t have an interest in making small talk with us. An idea emerges. Sure, we’re here for fun tonight, but there’s still a murderer on the loose and I have a plan.

  I scoop up our names and inspect every other table, eventually finding the names I’m looking for. I do a switch and leave the family on table four with new people to ignore.

  “What’s got into you?” Taylor asks, a twinkle in his eyes.

  “This is a much better table,” I say with a wink. He does a round of the table and inspects the names of the people we’ll be with, realisation dawning on his face as he does.

  “Much better,” he agrees. He sits next to me, with Sage on my other side and Patton next to her.

  Gradually, the room fills. I’m relieved to see women wearing evening gowns as I’d worried that I may be overdressed. The men have it easy. Black tie is so specific. They all look similar, stuffed into bow ties. None of them quite look as smart as Taylor, I think, and give his hand a squeeze.

  Instinctively, I reach across and whisper in his ear, “I’ll understand if you want a quiet day with the babies, but you’re welcome at mine for Christmas Day.”

  He grins and kisses my cheek. “We wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

  “Hello all,” a booming male voice comes then, and I turn to watch Finian Archbold pull out the chair for Antoinette Cross, who looks dazzling in a floor length satin dress with matching elbow length gloves. She takes her seat and nods at each of us in turn, her smile rigid.

  “Finian!” I exclaim, as if I’m surprised to see that he’s sharing our table. Finian is an eccentric man who owns Mystic Castle, an imitation castle set on the edge of town that was built to his exacting specifications. “Antoinette, you look beautiful.”

  “As do you,” she says politely, then ducks her head and pulls her cell phone from her tiny handbag.

  “Everything okay?” Finian asks her. She nods, but the tinny device falls out of her grip to the floor. Finian, ever the gentleman, is on his knees in a flash to retrieve it.

  “Thank you,” she says, her cheeks flushed. “I thought I heard a message come in.”

  “How’s Tallulah getting on?” I ask. “She’s back at boarding school?”

  “She had an audition,” Antoinette explains, visibly relaxing as she finds her footing in this comfortable conversation. “Such a lot happens at this time of year. All the best places will be gone when the new year term begins.”

  “It must be strange, though, not having her at home?” Sage asks.

  “It’s really not that unusual,” Finian interrupts. “I didn’t spend a winter break at home until I was old enough to work in the business.”

  “Your family aren’t exactly typical, though.”

  He grins. “Now that’s very true.”

  “How do you two know each other, anyway?” Sage asks.

  Finian and Antoinette glance at each other, just as an extraordinarily beautiful woman appears and practically drapes herself across Finian.

  “Everyone, meet Stella, my date tonight,” Finian says, as if he has a different date each night. Which may not be far from the truth. Given his advancing years and liver-spotted face, it would be impressive but also unsurprising. He has a magnetic personality and charm.

  We all give Stella a warm welcome while trying not to stare at her.

  “I invited Antoinette to come with us tonight,” Finian explains. “Stella’s a film producer. I wanted the two of them to meet.”

  “A film producer, hey?” Patton asks. “Will we have heard of any of your work?”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Stella says. We wait but she offers no specifics.

  As we try to find a common ground for light conversation, the lights drop a little and a tiny woman with enormous hair appears on stage, evening gown trailing behind her as if it’s a bridal train but I suspect is actually just due to her small stature. A lackey dashes across the stage with a microphone and she begins to belt out Christmas songs.

  The food is sublime and the co-ordination of servers bringing and emptying plates and topping up wine is unbelievably smooth. I feel my agenda for moving tables slip away from the centre of my mind as I relax and enjoy myself.

  We’d planned ahead that I’d drive us home so that Taylor could enjoy a beer, so I have to force myself to refuse the offer of a glass of champagne in between the dinner and dessert courses.

  Antoinette has been quiet throughout the meal, smiling at comments made by others and answering any questions directed her way. Finian has made several attempts to make her and Stella talk, but neither of the two women appear interested in the other. Antoinette appears almost sullen. I’d have expected her to be talking the ears off a film producer in a desperate ploy to get a part offered to Tallulah, but Antoinette remains quiet, often gazing off into the distance.

  Stella, for her part, has spent most of the night either tapping away on her phone with a long sculpted fingernail, or beckoning the servers for more alcohol. Her food has remained untouched.

  “You don’t eat much, then?” I say with a smile.

  “Nothing after six,” she says with a shrug. That must be awfully limiting, I think to myself. Isn’t your evening meal designed for post 6pm?

  “Oh.” I say.

  “It’s such a busy job I think food gets forgotten a lot of the time,” Finian says. His manners are impeccable. If he feels that any person has been quiet for too long, he’ll ask them a question or raise a
conversation that they will be interested in. He’s messed up tonight, though. The two women he’s brought simply have no time for each other.

  “Aren’t you hot in those gloves?” Finian asks Antoinette, who glances down at the material covering her hands.

  “They’re designed for indoor wear,” Antoinette says, which doesn’t exactly answer the question.

  A few people have got up and are dancing wherever they can find a bit of space. There’s no dancefloor, which didn’t seem to be an issue when we all arrived sober, but generous helpings of alcohol together with the festive spirit have put people in a party mood. I sit back and watch one man chase his wife around the tables as he holds a piece of mistletoe above his head. A burly man rises from his chair just as the husband approaches and, merry in more way than one, the two embrace while the first man’s wife stands nearby and shakes her head.

  “Ooh, look!” I say in a desperate attempt to make conversation. A young server has appeared with a tray of tiny desserts, which he hands out at a table near ours.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” Antoinette says, rising from her seat. I watch as she weaves her way through the tables and out of the room, then nod towards Taylor and follow her.

  The toilets aren’t like the school toilets I remember from my youth. These are modern and clean. The toilets I remember always stank of cigarettes, because the toilets were the place where the rebel teenagers went to smoke. Impolite messages were communicated from student to student via lipstick scrawled across the mirrors. And there was always at least one of the three toilets blocked and overflowing with toilet paper that appeared to have been deposited there as some kind of bizarre joke – as if the people doing it didn’t realise that they were punishing themselves as much as anyone else. After all, they needed to use the toilets just like everyone else.

  The toilets in the Mystic Springs High School are clean and modern, not to mention abundant. Just in here, there are eight toilets, and the basins are of a similar quality to what I have at home.

  I slip into the cubicle nearest the door and wait. My heart pounds in my chest as I think back over the last few days; every conversation I’ve had, every piece of evidence I’ve seen, every theory I’ve considered.

  After a minute, the toilet flushes a few cubicles away, and I hear the cubicle door unlock. I wait to hear the faucet and then emerge from my own cubicle.

  Antoinette stands at the basin furthest away from the door, her hands under the flow of water. She winces as she lathers the clementine hand wash on her skin, then turns and gasps at the sight of me.

  “You made me jump!”

  “Sorry,” I say, approaching the basin right next to her. I glance across and see the redness of her right hand. “That looks sore.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Eczema.”

  “That explains the gloves?” I ask.

  She nods. “I get a little self-conscious about it, especially when people are eating.”

  “Can I see?” I ask.

  She shakes her head and balls the hand into a fist, covering it with her left hand where the skin is completely clear. “Like I say, I’m a little self-conscious.”

  “It just, erm, it doesn’t look like eczema.” I say.

  “Are you a doctor?” Antoinette snaps, still hiding her red skin.

  “It looks like a burn.” I say, turning to face her. I force myself to keep my posture straight and expression mild.

  “Well, thank you for your second opinion,” she says, giving me a withering look. “Everyone’s an expert.”

  “Ok, I’m sorry.” I say. I reach past her for a hand towel. There’s another difference. Hand towels in these toilets. Unless they added those especially for tonight. I hold out the hand towel towards her, an olive branch.

  She reaches out for it with her right hand, then winces and takes it with her left hand. I offer her a smile, turn and walk away.

  As planned, Taylor is right outside the door. He meets my gaze and I nod to him. A nod that communicates so much more.

  “Antoinette Cross, you’re under arrest for the murders of Lionel Wright and Tabitha Reed.” Taylor says as he bursts into the room which is, now, completely empty. “She’s gone!”

  “What? She was right there!” I exclaim, darting back into the toilets after him. We look into each cubicle and then I see it. The door at the far end of the toilets. “There’s another door. Shoot! I didn’t even think about…”

  “There’s no time to dissect this, we have to find her!” Taylor calls, bursting out of the exit door. I follow him and we emerge straight out into the high school parking lot. Fresh snow has covered the ground, leaving a trail of footsteps we can follow. I try to keep up but my heels slow me down.

  “You go!” I cry, and Taylor speeds off. As soon as he reaches the front of the building, it’s impossible to follow the tracks. So many people have arrived here tonight, and plenty of those have snuck outside for breaks to smoke or check on the babysitter, that the ground is a sloppy slush instead of pristine snow.

  “darn it, she could be anywhere!” Taylor cries as Sage and Patton emerge from the main entrance and see us.

  “Is it her?” Sage asks, breathless.

  “I’m sure it is. Her right hand is covered in burns, and she’s naturally right handed but using her left.”

  “You think she burnt herself on the radiator.” Taylor says.

  “Exactly.” I say.

  “Good work, Con.”

  “Where did she go?” Patton asks, eyes surveying the scene. Night has coated the town with a heavy blanket of darkness.

  “Let’s split up,” Sage suggests. “You boys go together and I’ll stay with Connie. I have an idea.”

  “You do?” Patton asks. He eyes Sage warily.

  “We’ll be fine. You guys go – quickly!”

  The men nod and dash off towards the school gates. I look across at Sage curiously. “What’s your idea?”

  “Have you got the car? You’re not going to be able to walk it in those shoes,” she says. I nod. We came in Taylor’s car but I was always going to drive us home so the keys are in my clutch. We get into the car and I struggle to put the key in the ignition, my hands are shaking so much. Adrenaline or fear, I’m not sure.

  “Just take a minute,” Sage orders, bossy from the passenger seat.

  “We don’t have a minute!” I shout, my voice as unstable as my fingers.

  “Connie. I think I know where she might be, so now we just have to get there in one piece. If that means you need a minute, you’re going to take a darn minute, okay?” Sage asks, her own tone fierce. I nod and sit back in the driver’s seat, dropping the keys into my lap. I force myself to take deep breaths, in out, in out, and close my eyes.

  Finally, a calmness reaches me. I open my eyes and jam the key into the ignition on the first try. The engine roars to life and I grin across at Sage.

  “Let’s do this! Where are we going?”

  “The one place nobody would expect her to be.” Sage says with a wink.

  **

  By the time we pull up outside, the snow is falling heavily. Our journey has been slow as I reduced my speed for every turn and every green light that might turn to red.

  “Remind me to never use you as a getaway driver,” Sage teases me as I shut off the engine. The house is in darkness.

  “There’s no sign of life,” I murmur.

  “Of course there isn’t,” Sage says, unconcerned.

  “What’s our plan here?” I ask.

  “I’ll force myself through the door and then let you in,” she says, a glint of excitement in her eye.

  I’m about to object when I remember the severity of the situation.

  “Okay,” I agree.

  We climb out of the car and crunch down the path. The snow is fresh, not a single footprint in it, but that means nothing. It’s falling so fast, by the time we reach the front door, our own prints on the path have already been hidden under a fresh powder.

 
“You sure you’re strong enough?” I ask. Sage has had to force herself through so many doors recently. She’s got to be near her limit. And the last thing we need right now is her collapsing on me.

  “See you on the flip side,” she whispers, and then, with a pop, she’s gone. I hear her undo three separate locks from inside and then the door opens and I slip inside with a backward glance to make sure we’re not being watched.

  Antoinette’s house is small and unremarkable, but it’s no secret that all of her money goes towards Tallulah’s tuition fees.

  We tiptoe down the hall, peering into each room as we pass, then climb the stairs. Upstairs, there’s a bathroom, a room that is overflowing with elaborate costumes and dress-up items, and the bedroom. I wonder where Tallulah slept when she returned home, but my thought is interrupted by the sight of Antoinette Cross.

  She sits at the dressing up table in the dress-up room, which is at the back of the house. A small lamp illuminates her face, which has been transformed since she left the auditorium. Instead of the delicate make-up she was wearing for the Christmas dinner, she has transformed herself, even the shape of her face.

  “Antoinette?” I ask.

  She glances at us in the mirror. “What do you think? You’d hardly believe it’s me, would you?”

  Make-up has made her nose appear slimmer and upturned, and shading has hollowed out her cheeks. She looks almost skeletal. Her eyes are a piercing shade of violet, transformed by contact lenses I guess, and her eyebrows are a different colour. A bright red wig sits atop her head.

  “This is what I was destined to do,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “I had the job offers. Everything was falling into place. And then I fell pregnant. Do you know what it’s like to realise your dreams will never come true?”

  “Yes,” I admit, my voice choked, as I picture myself as a teenager rehearsing a bedtime routine I’d never get to do for real. “I do.”

  “Then you’ll understand why I did what I did.”

  “What did you do, Antoinette?” I ask, knowing that we have to keep her talking until the boys work out where we are. “I know you dropped part of your audition schedule at Nick’s house.”