The Ghost and the Mystery Writer

by Anna J. McIntyre

When they reached Chris’s house, Hillary went inside with Danielle, who gave her a tour of the property. Everything appeared to be in order. After looking through the bungalow, Hillary unlocked the sliding glass door and stepped onto the back patio. Standing at the edge of the patio, she looked out to the ocean and watched the waves breaking along the shore.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Danielle said when she joined Hillary a few minutes later.

  “Lovely, just lovely. Marlow House is wonderful, but I must say, being right here on the ocean would be a writer’s dream. Imagine looking at this all day while working. Stunning. Simply stunning.”

  “It is pretty nice. When Marlow House was initially built, it was practically beach front. But then the Hemming house was built—smack dab in front of Marlow House.” Danielle chuckled. “Amazing really that George Hemming and Walt were such good friends. I’d think blocking someone’s view might put strains on a friendship.”

  “Certainly Frederick Marlow realized someone would eventually block his view.”

  “I’m sure he did. And he obviously didn’t care, or he wouldn’t have built where he did,” Danielle said.

  “I thought I heard voices,” a man interrupted.

  Danielle and Hillary glanced to the right of the patio. There, standing on the beach, was Chris’s neighbor Pete Rogers.

  “Hey, Pete, how are you doing?” Danielle asked the older man.

  “I heard voices, but didn’t see a car out front,” Pete said as he stepped up onto the patio.

  “I was just checking on Chris’s house. Making sure everything was okay.”

  “So he’s not back yet?” Pete asked.

  Danielle shook her head. “No. Pete, have you met Hillary Hemmingway? She’s staying with us.”

  Wearing a frown, Pete looked Hillary up and down. “You look kind of familiar.”

  Hillary smiled. “I was thinking the same thing. Have we met before?”

  Pete shrugged. “I doubt it. But you do look familiar.”

  “Hillary’s a well-known murder mystery author,” Danielle explained. “Maybe you’ve seen her picture on a book jacket or on television?”

  Pete shook his head. “Nahh, I don’t read mysteries. Only watch fishing shows on TV.”

  “Even if you had,” Hillary said, “that wouldn’t explain why you look familiar to me. And I’ve definitely seen you someplace before…I just can’t place where.”

  Pete shrugged again. “Small town.” He looked at Danielle. “I haven’t seen a bunch of strange cars parked at your house this week. Just one. You still running Marlow House as an inn?”

  “A B and B, but yes. Like I just said a minute ago, Hillary is one of our guests.”

  Pete shook his head and grumbled. “I don’t know why they let you run a business in a residential neighborhood. Just doesn’t seem right to me.”

  Danielle let out a weary sigh. “If any of my guests ever cause you a problem, Pete, just come talk to me, and I promise I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’d think you’d be more concerned about a killer running around in the neighborhood!” Hillary told Pete.

  “I’m sure whoever killed Jolene is long gone by now,” Pete said.

  “You knew the poor woman too?” Hillary asked.

  “Oh, that might be where you recognize each other from,” Danielle said.

  Pete frowned at Danielle. “Excuse me?”

  “I saw you at the police station. I know the chief interviewed you because you were at Pier Café the night Jolene was murdered. Hillary here was at the café that night too. I bet you saw each other there.”

  Pete looked Hillary up and down again. “Yeah, I remember now. That’s where I saw you.”

  With a frown, Hillary looked at Pete and shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t remember seeing you there. Of course, I was wearing my reading glasses that night; anything over a couple feet away is a blur if I’m wearing those. No, I’ve seen you before, but it wasn’t from the diner.”

  “It’s going to be after ten before we touch down in Portland. Surely you don’t plan to drive to Frederickport tonight?” Chris asked.

  “I might have—if I hadn’t drank all those martinis.” Melony giggled. “But without the martinis, I would never have gotten through this flight. I plan to spend the night in a hotel in Portland, and then I’ll rent a car in the morning.”

  “I imagine your mother has a car you can use when you get there?” Chris asked.

  “Sure, but it’s not going to get me from Portland to Frederickport.”

  “I was just wondering—you want to drive in with me in the morning? I’m planning to get a room tonight too.”

  “I assume your car is at the airport?”

  Chris smiled. “No. Actually, I’m picking up my new car in the morning, or should I say, they’ve agreed to drop it off at the motel then.”

  “You’re getting a new car?”

  “Yep. I’ve been without wheels for a while, figured it was about time I buy one.”

  “I can certainly understand getting along in New York without a car, but in Oregon?”

  Chris shrugged. “I got by. But it was starting to get to be a hassle, relying on other people; figured it was time to get one. Knew what I wanted, called a few dealers when I had some downtime on my business trip, and bought a car.”

  “Sight unseen? Without a test drive?”

  Chris grinned. “I like to live dangerously.”

  Thirty minutes later, after finishing their dinner, Chris glanced over to Melony and asked, “Was your mother sick long?”

  “Sick?”

  “I just assumed she was sick.” Chris sighed. “Although, not sure why I’d jump to that assumption. My own parents were killed in a boating accident.”

  “You lost them both at the same time?” Melony asked in a quiet voice.

  Chris nodded. “Yes. So was it an accident?”

  “My mother was murdered.”

  Chris sat up abruptly in his seat and looked over at Melony, who sat next to him, her eyes closed.

  Chris reached over, placing his hand over hers. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, Melony. Did they catch him?”

  Melony shook her head and then opened her eyes, looking over at Chris. “No. At first they thought it was a robbery. She was on the beach late at night—which is a crazy thing for a woman to do even in a small town like Frederickport. Whoever killed her took her jewelry. My mother was partial to diamonds.” Melony shook her head. “I always thought those damn rings she flashed were an invitation to be hit over the head—which is exactly what happened to her.”

  “You said at first they thought it was a robbery? Are you saying she wasn’t robbed?”

  “Oh, she was robbed; the killer removed her rings. But he didn’t keep them, which is why the police are certain the motive wasn’t robbery.”

  “What do you mean the killer didn’t keep the rings?” Chris asked.

  “Apparently, the killer dumped them off the end of the pier. Eddy told me they got tangled in a fishing net and were recovered. He doesn’t think the killer intended them to be found, but wanted the authorities to assume the motive for murder was robbery.”

  “Who’s Eddy?” Chris asked.

  Melony smiled. “Oh, Eddy MacDonald. He’s the police chief in Frederickport.”

  “Eddy? His name is Eddy? I was beginning to think MacDonald didn’t have a first name.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  When had it stopped being fun? Carla asked herself that question for what seemed like the hundredth time. Sitting on a stool at her breakfast bar, she watched Steve hastily comb his hair and straighten his clothing as he prepared to leave her apartment.

  “We can’t do this again,” Steve said as he checked his pockets to make sure he had his wallet and keys.

  “You seemed fine with everything a few minutes ago,” Carla reminded him.

  Steve turned and looked at her. Carla, no longer dressed in street clothes, wore a floor-length satin robe ov
er her nude body. Her bare feet rested on the barstool’s lower rung.

  “My wife’s coming home. I have to drive to Portland in the morning and pick her up at the airport.”

  Carla frowned. “You never said anything about that. I thought she was going to be gone for another week at least.”

  Steve shrugged. “Plans change. She sent me an itinerary in my email this morning, with her flight schedule and when I have to pick her up.”

  “When will I see you?”

  “I just said we can’t do this again,” Steve reminded her.

  “You mean…never?”

  Combing his fingers through his hair, he inched toward the front door, his eyes darting anxiously from Carla to his impending exit route.

  Carla stepped down off the stool, her balled hands now resting on her hips. “I don’t get it. Fifteen minutes ago you were all over me. Couldn’t keep your hands off me. And now, now you say it’s over?”

  “I’m married, Carla.”

  “That didn’t stop you from coming here today,” Carla snapped.

  Taking a step toward the door, he said, “I like you, but this is just a bad idea. I told you before, I’ve no intention of leaving my wife.”

  “I know you said that, but I can’t believe you’re willing to walk away from what we have. I make you happy.”

  “I can’t leave my wife.”

  “She doesn’t make you happy. I do,” Carla insisted.

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Carla. It’s over.” Without another word, Steve turned and hurried out the door.

  Instead of tears, Carla picked up the closest thing she could find—which happened to be a mug of coffee—and hurled it at the front door. Her aim fell short, and the mug landed unbroken on the carpet, leaving behind a trail of coffee.

  Snatching a dishtowel off the breakfast bar, she tossed it on the coffee now soaking into her carpet. Using her foot, she pressed the towel over the wet surface and haphazardly wiped the area. Instead of picking up the towel, she turned and made her way to the bathroom.

  Once in the bathroom she stood before the mirror and looked at her reflection. “I’m going to be one of those old ladies waiting tables at some truck stop.”

  Leaning toward the mirror, she inspected the fine lines starting to show around her eyes. Pressing a finger against one line, attempting to flatten it out, she said, “Bankers’ wives don’t have to wait tables.”

  Letting out a sigh, she stood up straight, narrowed her eyes, and stared intently into the mirror. “Okay, be honest, Carla, you don’t love the guy. But it would make things a hell of a lot easier if he left his wife.”

  Slipping off her robe, she let it fall to the floor in a silky heap. Her hand reached into the shower and turned on the water. While she waited for the water to reach the desired temperature, she considered her options.

  “I could swear off married men—if there were more single guys in Frederickport.” Reaching out, she put her hand under the showerhead to check the water’s temperature. She then remembered what Steve had said about the email. Quickly, she turned off the water, snatched her robe up off the floor, and slipped it back on.

  “What do you mean she emailed you her itinerary?” Carla said aloud as she hurried from the bathroom, fastening the robe’s belt along the way. “You told me once your wife doesn’t know how to use a computer.”

  Several minutes later, Carla sat at her kitchen table and turned on her laptop.

  “I bet your wife isn’t even coming home tomorrow,” Carla mumbled as she logged on to the computer and opened the page for Yahoo Mail. She knew Steve’s personal email address—yet she didn’t know his password.

  “Considering your lack of imagination in the bedroom, I bet your password is something lame like your pet’s name.”

  Carla was correct. She managed to log into Steve’s email account on the first try.

  As she suspected, she couldn’t find an email from Mrs. Klein to her husband, regarding her trip home. By the size of his trash folder, Carla figured if Mrs. Klein had sent that email and her husband had deleted it, it would still be sitting in the trash bin.

  Carla opened the trash file and glanced through the emails. “I knew it. You liar. Your wife isn’t coming home early. Fine. You have stupid-looking hair anyway.”

  Just as she was about to log out of Steve’s email account, a name on one of the trashed emails jumped out at her—Jolene Carmichael. According to the date associated with the email, it was sent the same day Jolene was murdered.

  Carla shivered. “That’s just too strange.” Curious, she opened the email.

  * * *

  I hope your wife is enjoying her visit with her sister.

  So nice of Carla to keep you company.

  Please call me when I can come in and sign the loan papers.

  We need to have it wrapped up this week.

  Have a nice day.

  Jolene

  * * *

  “That’s weird…” Carla mumbled, rereading the email.

  On her way to the parlor from the kitchen, Danielle noticed someone had left the light on in the downstairs powder room. The door was ajar, so she slipped her hand inside and flipped the wall switch, sending the small room into total darkness.

  “Hey!” came Lily’s shout from inside the powder room.

  Hastily, Danielle turned the light back on. “I’m sorry,” she said with a laugh as she opened the door wider. Lily stood at the mirror, the sleeve on her tattooed arm rolled up. “I thought everyone was upstairs.”

  Lily resumed what she had been doing before Danielle plunged her into darkness—inspecting her tattooed arm.

  Now standing in the bathroom with Lily, Danielle leaned against the door jamb and watched her friend. “It looks red. Does it hurt?”

  Lily shrugged. “Not really. A little tender.”

  “I’m curious to see what it’ll look like when they add the colors.”

  Turning from the mirror, Lily showed Danielle her arm and pointed to the new addition to her tattoo. “I think he did a pretty good job.” Two figures had been added—one an angel and the other a woman riding the dragon. When Lily had shown Danielle the tattoo when she had first returned home from Portland, Danielle knew without being told who the two figures represented. The one riding the dragon was Lily, and the angel was Isabella.

  When they finished examining Lily’s new tattoo, they left the bathroom and walked to the parlor.

  “You still haven’t heard from Chris?” Lily asked as they stepped into the room.

  “No. And it’s kind of late there now. But I talked to him yesterday morning. It’s not like we have to talk every day.” Danielle flopped down on the sofa and leaned against one armrest. She kicked off her shoes before propping her feet on the opposing arm.

  Lily sat in a chair facing the sofa. “But you have talked every day.”

  Danielle shrugged. “I checked on his house this afternoon.”

  “Was everything okay?”

  “Yeah…” Danielle chuckled and then said, “but right before I left to go up there, Walt told me to be careful. Reminded me it would be a good place for a killer to be hiding out. Kinda freaked me out.”

  “We’re not that far from where Jolene was murdered. It probably wasn’t wise to be checking out vacant houses alone.”

  “I wasn’t alone. Hillary went with me. We ran into Pete Rogers when we were on Chris’s patio. He’s kind of a nosey busy body.”

  “Speaking of Hillary…” Lily glanced from Danielle to the closed door leading to the hallway and then back to Danielle. “I can’t believe the chief isn’t doing something with what you told him.”

  “I’m not sure what he can do. Hearsay from a ghost doesn’t seem to carry a lot of weight.”

  “What if we could find the notes Jolene wrote—the ones Walt read,” Lily asked.

  Danielle looked to Lily. “We can’t go through her room. Even if I let Walt do it, whatever we find won’t help the chief.
It will just put us all in an awkward position.” Danielle glanced up to the ceiling, thinking of Walt, who was probably in the attic. “And maybe the chief was right. Maybe it is all a coincidence, and Walt read more into it.”

  “But maybe Walt didn’t—and the only way we’ll know for sure is to read those notes,” Lily insisted.

  “We can’t rummage through a guest’s things.”

  “I’m not suggesting that.”

  Danielle sat up in the sofa and put her feet on the floor. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Tomorrow is trash day.” Lily smiled.

  Danielle frowned. “So?”

  “The day before trash day, Joanne goes through the house and rounds up all the trash—from all the rooms. What if Hillary threw those notes away?”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Because she’s been writing on that typewriter for hours. All I know, when Ian is working on one of his projects, he starts jotting down ideas—sort of like what Walt said Hillary seemed to be doing, judging by her notes. But Ian doesn’t keep the notes forever. Some he does, but I’ve seen him toss out notes not long after he’s written them. Sometimes it’s just a way to get ideas flowing.”

  “That’s sort of what Hillary told me when I asked her about them.”

  “It’s possible the notes Walt read are sitting outside in the trash cans.”

  Danielle groaned. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to go through the trash if you had thought of this before Joanne dumped it all in the outside cans?”

  “I suppose that’s true.” Lily shrugged. “If we would’ve thought of it earlier. But the fact is, if they’re out there in the trash, this is our last chance to see what she really wrote.”

  “If they’re out there.”

  “They might be, Dani.”

  Danielle glanced to the parlor window. It was dark outside. “We’re going to need a couple of flashlights.”

  “Or we could wait until the morning,” Lily suggested.

  “They pick up the trash early. Even if we wait until the morning, it’ll still be dark out if we want to go through the cans before the trash man shows up.”