by Cate Dean
Dancing on her Grave
Maggie Mulgrew Mysteries Book 4
Cate Dean
Copyright, 2017
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except for use in any review. This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locales, and events are either pure invention or used fictitiously, and all incidents come from the author’s imagination alone.
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Table of Contents
Copyright Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
List of British Slang
Dancing on her Grave
About The Author
Further Reading: Witch in the Dell - And 2 New Mini Mysteries
One
Maggie Mulgrew leaned against her husband’s left shoulder, and sighed, happy to be going home.
Husband.
She loved just the thought of it, the quiet thrill whenever she looked at Pembroke Martin, and knew they belonged to each other, for now and for good.
“Penny for your thoughts, love.”
She smiled, warmth spreading through her, and lifted her head to kiss his cheek. “They’re all about you, husband.”
Martin returned her smile, and her heart skipped. “Is that so, wife?” He tucked a stray red curl behind her ear, then traced the line of her cheek. “Perhaps we should skip the welcome home party, and prolong our honeymoon.”
Maggie would love nothing better; having Martin all to herself had spoiled her for more. But she knew that her best friend, Spencer Knight, had been planning this party for days—and knowing him, he had started planning the minute after she told him about the honeymoon.
“I’d love that, but—”
“You don’t want to disappoint Spencer.”
She smiled at him, loving that he understood. It would be nothing formal—just some of their friends, anxious to see the newly married couple. But Spence did so much for her, always had, that she couldn’t miss this party.
Martin drew her out of her thoughts by cupping her chin and kissing her. She could happily be distracted like that for the rest of her life.
The train pulled into Holmestead’s small station and they stood, gathering their things. It was a short, pleasant walk from the station to the pub. For January, the weather was mild, the almost constant wind calm, as they stepped out of the station.
Each of them pulled a new suitcase; two weeks in London meant haunting the local antique shops, Portobello Road, the antiques market in Chelsea, and every museum they could squeeze in. Maggie had found more for The Ash Leaf than she had planned; enough to buy two larger suitcases to accommodate it all.
Martin had simply smiled at her as he helped her pack it all up.
She made sure to take the heavier one, though Martin didn’t know it was the heavier of the two. After they had packed, she had marked it with a green ribbon. Even though he claimed to be fine, she kept a close watch on how he moved his right arm. The knife wound he had received last month might not have been serious, but it still needed time to heal.
Maggie heard the pub before they saw it. Light spilled out onto the sidewalk from the open doors, and people braved the cooler weather, wearing coats as they sipped their pints. Spencer was the first to see them.
He set his pint on the edge of the window box, grabbed the hand of the woman beside him, and headed straight for Maggie.
“Mags!” He let go of the woman’s hand and scooped Maggie up, turning her in a circle as he kissed her. “I missed you, sweetheart. How was dirty old London?”
“London was perfect—and clean, thank you.” She brushed sun streaked blonde hair off his forehead. Even in the winter, he managed to look like he spent days on a beach. “I missed you, too, Spence. How’s the stuffy museum?”
He sighed, setting her down. “Still a mess, but getting better.” The woman he’d dragged over moved to his side, and with a start, Maggie recognized her.
“Grace?”
“Welcome home, Maggie.” Grace Nightingale stepped forward and hugged her.
“Are you—” Maggie glanced at Spencer, not surprised to see him staring at his feet. He always did that when he was embarrassed, or unsure. “You moved to Holmestead, didn’t you?”
Smiling, Grace nodded. “Spencer made a good point; if I lived here, I’d be able to give my tours information no other company would have. Not that I needed another reason.” She held out her hand, and Spencer took it. He looked incredibly happy. “All Spencer had to do was ask.”
“I—what?”
Maggie laughed, and patted his flushed cheek. “I’m happy for you, Spence.”
She walked past him, took Martin’s outstretched hand, and headed into the pub.
Warmth and cheers greeted them.
Christopher Belgard, the owner of the pub, came around the bar and took their suitcases. “I’ll stash these in back for you. Just give a wave when you’re ready to go.”
Martin handed them over. “Thank you, Christopher. Some turnout.”
Chris winked at Maggie. “Spencer paid for first round.”
She smiled. That would have brought some of them, like Patrick Tucker, the reclusive owner of Only Old Books. He huddled at the far end of the long bar, his grey streaked tonsure as wild as usual, nursing a cup of tea. When he spotted Maggie, he waved, then focused on his white mug, and the book sitting next to it on the bar.
Only Patrick would bring a book to a party.
Martin led her into the pub, forced to stop every couple of steps to accept handshakes and congratulations. It looked like the entire village was crammed inside.
“Maggie.” Lilliana Green appeared at her side and pulled her into a tight hug. “You look radiant. How is married life so far?”
“Perfect.” She laughed. “I know it won’t stay that way, but for now, just perfect.”
“Exactly as it should be. In the beginning.” She hugged Maggie again. “Welcome home.”
“Thanks.” Once she was free, Martin kept moving, and Maggie saw why. He was headed for the only empty table—one decorated with wedding bells, white and pink crepe paper, and a mini wedding cake in the middle of the thick wood table. “Spencer really went over the top.”
“I doubt this was all Spencer, love.” Martin helped her out of her coat before he pulled out the chair decorated in pink for her, and she had to admit he was right. Spencer didn’t touch pink if he could help it.
Martin slipped out of his coat and sat opposite her, in the chair decked out with white wedding bells.
“We’re not getting out of here anytime soon,” she said, looking past Martin at the locals lining up to welcome them home. “Sorry.”
“No worries, Mrs. Martin.” He leaned down, whispering the rest. “We can always sneak away to the shop.”
Then, in front of the entire village, he kissed her.
Applause filled the pub. Maggie felt heat flush her cheeks, but she smiled and waved at everyone. “This is what you took on when you married me,” she said, as the applause died down. “I hope you’re ready for it.”
“I am good with any challenge that includes you.” He kissed her hand, and several women sighed.
Enid Phillips bustled up to the table, her cheeks pink from the heat. Or, more likely, from the glass of whiskey in her hand. She leaned
down and kissed Maggie’s cheek.
“Welcome home, my dear girl. Don’t you worry about your shop; I checked on that Ashton every day while you were gone.”
Maggie swallowed a laugh—and she slapped Martin’s leg under the table when he choked. “Thank you, Enid. I appreciate your vigilance.” Not that Ashton would have. She saw apologizing and ruffled ego soothing in her near future. “How is the souvenir shop?”
“Absolutely—” Enid caught the back of Maggie’s chair, and gave her a lopsided smile. “Fabulous,” she finished, looking at her glass. “I may have—overindulged.”
Martin stood and moved to Enid, his hand supporting her elbow. “Please, allow me to escort you home.”
Enid shocked Maggie by reaching up and patting Martin’s cheek. “You darling young man. You make my Maggie happy.”
He winked at Maggie. “I like to think so.”
“Take an old woman home,” Enid said, her words starting to slur. Unfortunately, her next words were crystal clear. “Then come back here and take your wife to bed.”
Maggie stared at Enid, mortified, as laughter echoed around them. She knew her face had to be as red as her hair. Martin, bless him, saved her from further embarrassment.
“Let’s get you home, Enid.”
He led her to the door, half carrying her by the time they reached it. Before Maggie could recover, Ashton Stewart dropped into the chair Martin had just vacated, looking so relieved she wanted to laugh.
“Thank you for coming back.” He took her hand, his green eyes wide. “She hounded me, every single day, Maggie. Sometimes twice a day, if business was slow at her shop. Please tell me that isn’t normal.”
“It isn’t. And thank you—for holding down the fort while I was gone, and dealing with Enid. I know how difficult she can be.”
Ashton frowned. “But—she adores you.”
“That’s a recent thing. When I moved here last year, I was the evil Yank who couldn’t possibly know anything about antiques, certain to destroy my Aunt Irene’s business. She also expected me to have my aunt’s temperament, which, to put it nicely, was brusque. I spent months trying to win her over.”
“How did you?”
“It’s a long story. One I’ll tell you sometime in the next few weeks, when we’re the only people in the shop.” She had prepared for the post-holiday slump before she left, and had even more projects to keep her and Ashton busy, with her new finds tucked in the suitcases. “I’ll open the shop tomorrow, so why don’t you take the morning off.”
He was right upstairs, in the flat over the shop, if an unexpected rush happened.
“That would be grand.” He squeezed her hand before letting go, and stood. “I will be down to relieve you at lunch.”
“Sounds like a plan. Now, go and enjoy yourself.”
He smiled at her, then took off, headed straight for the bar.
Maggie laughed, shaking her head. Sometimes, Ashton’s enthusiasm made her feel old.
“What did I miss, love?”
She looked up at Martin, her heart skipping at the sight of him. He was so handsome, his wire-rimmed glasses winking in the flickering light. With care that had tears stinging her eyes, he brushed curls off her cheek.
“I’m ready to go home,” she whispered.
“Good.” He smiled. “If not, I was ready to carry you out over my shoulder. I’ll fetch our bags.” He kissed her, and she tasted promise in that kiss. “Meet me at the door.”
She nodded, and gathered up their coats. To her shock, Patrick Tucker slid off the stool and stepped in her path.
“I wish to congratulate you, Maggie.” He held out his hand.
Impulsively, Maggie kissed his cheek, delighted to see his eyes light up. “Thank you, Patrick. I’m glad you braved the crowds.”
“I’ve reached my fill, so I will be off.”
Without another word, Patrick wound his way through the pub, nodding to Martin before he walked out.
Maggie followed him, stopping every few steps to accept congratulations, and enthusiastic, drink-fueled hugs. By the time she reached Martin, she was ready to have him carry her home.
He took both coats from her, and helped her into hers before putting on his own.
“Ready?”
“More than.” She turned toward the interior, and found everyone there watching, waiting. “Thank you all for a wonderful homecoming. I love living here, and you all reminded me why I do.”
The cheer followed them out.
Maggie took Martin’s hand as they walked up the empty high street. She loved this place, with its quirky residents, shops that sold everything from fresh meat to eclectic dust catchers, the ancient sitting cheek by jowl with the modern.
She looked forward to starting the next stage of her life here, with the man at her side.
Two
Martin insisted on carrying Maggie over the threshold.
He had been anticipating this all the way home; the gesture that defined them as a couple, and a house as their home, their retreat.
While Maggie half-heartedly argued, he pulled both suitcases just inside, then walked over to her and lifted her into his arms.
“Martin, your shoulder—”
“Is fine. Hush, Mrs. Martin.”
He kissed her, and stepped across the threshold.
Maggie’s alarmed cry halted him. “What the—put me down, Martin.”
He did, and saw what had drawn her attention.
The dried flowers that had once been part of an arrangement on the foyer table were now scattered across the black and white marble floor. The Waterford vase was still intact, sitting in its usual spot. Beyond the mess of broken stems and petals, Martin saw even more signs of vandalism.
“Maggie. Stop.”
She turned to him, anger flushing her cheeks. “I am going—”
“The vandal may still be here,” he said, his voice quiet. “We will go together, and I will lead. No argument.”
Nodding, she moved to him and took his left hand. “I’ll be right behind you. No argument.”
He brushed her cheek, ignoring the twinge in his still healing right shoulder, and headed for the doorway leading into the lounge.
The mess carried through in here; books piled where they hadn’t been before, some of the knickknacks Maggie’s Aunt Irene had collected perched on top of the piles. It all looked deliberate, and Martin could not, for the life of him, figure out who would have broken in and done such a thing.
Before he could stop her, Maggie stepped around him and headed straight for the first pile of books.
“What were they... nothing’s broken.” She turned to Martin, a delicate figurine in her hand. “Not a single thing is broken.”
The longer he studied the room, the more certain he was about exactly who had done this. He had seen it before, in his childhood home.
“Maggie, I believe I know what happened here.”
“I’d love to be in on that.”
He laughed, loving her humor. It was just one of the many things he loved about her. “I believe your ghost is trying to leave you a message.”
She lowered herself to the upholstered wing chair behind her, still holding the figurine. “Couldn’t she just appear at the end of the bed, or rattle some chains in the attic? Why did she have to rearrange the entire—”
Maggie cut herself off and pushed to her feet, stalking toward the doorway that led into the second parlor. Martin followed her, afraid that he already knew what she would find.
Her furious shout told him that he was right.
The parlor had also been rearranged—and this time, furniture had been involved.
They moved through every room on the ground floor, finding evidence that Maggie’s ghost, Anthea Cragmoor, had been busy. Martin checked the first floor, and the small tower office. Those had been left untouched. Whatever message Anthea was trying to leave, it involved only the rooms on the main floor. He found Maggie in the kitchen, slumped in one of the c
hairs at the scarred farmhouse table, staring at her hands.
“Why would she do this?” she whispered.
Martin crouched in front of her and cradled her cheek. “In my experience, when a ghost starts rearranging the household, they are desperate for your attention.”
“Well, she’s got it.” Maggie lifted her head, and Martin wanted nothing more than to gather her into his arms and soothe away the pain he saw in her crystal blue eyes. “I thought we were done with her, after finding her journal. She hasn’t shown herself since she tried to warn you about Ken.”
“We discovered that she was murdered, love. Perhaps she thinks she has found someone to give her a bit of justice.”
“I made a promise to myself, Martin, after you were hurt. It’s time to give up being an amateur detective.”
He cupped her chin, studying her. “I understand, and believe me, I would be thrilled. But I fell in love with that busy, inquisitive mind of yours. I would hate to see it go to waste.”
“I won’t put you—or anyone else—in danger again. I can’t, Martin. I can’t lose you.”
He gave in to his need, and pulled her into his arms. With a sigh, she laid her head on his shoulder. Martin slid his fingers into the silky length of her hair. Her wild, ginger hair had drawn him to her from their first meeting.
She let out another sigh, and started to relax against him. Cold slapped him a moment before Anthea appeared. He wrapped his left arm around Maggie’s waist and helped her stand, both of them facing the ghost.
“What do you want?” The slight tremble in Maggie’s voice had Martin tightening his arm around her waist.
Anthea glided out of the kitchen, and they followed her, down the long hallway, to the library at the back of the house. This room had taken the brunt of the ghost’s rearranging; books had been stacked on every available surface. It would take them days to put everything back in order. Maggie eased out of Martin’s embrace and stepped forward, crossing her arms. Martin hid a smile. Fierce and fearless Maggie was back.
“You didn’t need to tear my house apart just to get my attention.” The ghost flickered, and Martin knew that she was distressed at Maggie’s anger. “Now that you have it, what do you want?” Anthea floated to the only book case she had not all but emptied and hovered in front of it. “One of the books? This is about one of the books here?”
