The Ghost and the Mystery Writer

by Anna J. McIntyre

  “Who?” Chris asked just as the woman vanished.

  In the next moment, Chris’s neighbor Pete Rogers stepped into view. He smiled at Chris and said, “You’re back!”

  “Umm…hey…hi, Pete.” Chris glanced around. The woman was nowhere in sight.

  “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

  Chris patted his pocket and said, “I was talking on the phone.”

  “Ahh, well, that explains it.” Pete laughed. “Thought for a moment there you were talking to your imaginary friend.” He laughed again. “Welcome home!”

  “Thanks.”

  Pete started on his way when Chris said, “Hey, Pete, I met someone you know on the flight from New York. She drove with me here from the airport.”

  Pete paused and turned back to Chris. “Yeah, who?”

  “Melony Jacobs. She said you were an old family friend. She was here earlier, stopped by your house to say hi, but you weren’t home. You knew her as Melony Carmichael.”

  “Melony?” Pete smiled softly. “Haven’t seen that girl in years. So she really came back? I figured she might—imagine she’ll have to deal with her mother’s house and all.”

  “I never met Jolene Carmichael. But Melony seems awful nice.”

  “She was a sweet kid, from what I remember. Back in those days, the neighbors would get together a lot and have bonfires on the beach. Good times.” Tucking his hands into his jacket pockets, Pete gazed out to the sea. “She went through a rough patch when she hit high school—a lot of kids do. I always figured she’d eventually come back to Frederickport, but I guess she moved on.”

  “She’s here now to take care of her mother’s estate.”

  Pete shook his head. “Shame about Jolene. Real shame. Can’t believe something like that happening in Frederickport, but according to the newspaper, they don’t think it was a robbery. Sounds like Jolene made an enemy when she moved back.”

  “Any idea who’d want her dead?” Chris asked.

  Pete shook his head. “Not really. Jolene could be kind of pushy—she liked to have her way—but can’t imagine why anyone would want to see her dead.”

  “She have any enemies in town?” Chris asked.

  Pete chuckled. “Well, I did hear she had a bit of a run-in with your friend Danielle Boatman. I guess those two weren’t the best of friends.”

  “Yeah…I heard about that.”

  “So you say Melony is staying at Marlow House?” Pete asked.

  “Yes. She didn’t want to stay at her mom’s house. I can’t say I really blame her.”

  “It’s probably better for Melony not to be alone right now. I’ll have to go over and say hi. Do you know when she’s having her mother’s funeral?”

  “From what she told me, there won’t be one.”

  Pete frowned. “No funeral? Well, that seems like a shame. There should be a funeral. Jolene grew up in Frederickport, I’d think a lot of people would like to pay their last respects.”

  Chris shrugged. “I guess Melony doesn’t plan to have one. Maybe it was her mother’s wishes, I have no idea.”

  “Hmm, no funeral?” Pete shook his head. “Well, I need to get my walk in. I miss one of my walks and these old bones get stiff.”

  “Have a nice walk.”

  “No funeral…imagine that…” Pete muttered as he continued on his way.

  Chris stood at the edge of his patio and watched as Pete continued down the beach. When the neighbor was out of earshot, he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and called Danielle.

  “Hey, Chris, I thought you’d be sound asleep,” Danielle greeted him when she answered the phone.

  Holding the phone to his ear, Chris looked down the beach and then said, “I think I just met Melony’s mother. She was here a few minutes ago, looking for her daughter.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  When Danielle opened the front door of Marlow House and found Chief MacDonald dressed in his uniform, standing on her front porch, she wondered for a moment if her psychic powers extended beyond communicating with ghosts. Just moments earlier she had been contemplating calling him and asking him to stop by on his way home from the station. Now, here he was.

  “Wow, I’m good,” Danielle muttered as she opened the door wider to let him in.

  “That’s one of the strangest greetings I’ve ever received.” MacDonald removed his baseball cap as he stepped inside Marlow House.

  “I was just thinking of calling you. We need to talk.” Danielle pointed to the parlor and shut the door behind him.

  “I don’t even get a hello, or why are you here?” He followed Danielle into the front room.

  “Hello, why are you here?” Danielle asked as she waited for MacDonald to enter the parlor so that she could shut its door.

  “We have to keep this between the two of us,” MacDonald began. In the next moment his nose twitched, teased by the distinct scent of cigar smoke. He turned to where he believed it originated. “Afternoon, Walt. I will rephrase. We need to keep this between the three of us.”

  Walt chuckled and took a puff off his thin cigar.

  “Can’t pull anything over on you, Chief.” Danielle grinned and took a seat on the sofa. “Go ahead and tell me what you came here for, and then I’ll tell you what I found out.”

  “I suspect Hillary witnessed Jolene’s murder,” he began.

  “Yeah, I know that’s what you’ve been saying.” Sitting on the sofa, Danielle pulled her bare feet up on the cushion, tucking them under her.

  “It explains those notes she wrote. I believe she saw Steve Klein murder Jolene.”

  “Steve? I find it difficult to imagine Steve as a killer.”

  MacDonald removed a photocopy of the anonymous letter he had received from the supposed witness to the crime. He handed the folded piece of paper to Danielle. “I received this in today’s mail. It was sent to the station, but addressed to me.” After Danielle accepted the paper, MacDonald took a seat on one of the chairs facing her.

  As she unfolded the page, Walt moved to the sofa, standing behind it, looking over Danielle’s shoulder so that he could read what appeared to be a typed letter.

  After reading it, Danielle looked up to the chief. “I assume you think Hillary sent this?”

  “It’s the logical explanation. But I really don’t have enough to arrest Steve on. If I had a witness, one who was willing to come forward and not hide behind an anonymous letter, I could bring Steve in.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “I need to convince her to do the right thing. Whoever wrote that letter it wasn’t printed on a computer. I’ve already had the original letter examined—it was typed on an old-fashioned typewriter with ribbon ink. It wasn’t generated from a computer printer.”

  “What about fingerprints?”

  He shook his head. “None. Of course, I wouldn’t expect a mystery writer to leave her fingerprints on a letter if she intended to remain anonymous.”

  “She also wouldn’t use her own typewriter,” Walt said. “I imagine you can identify the machine this was typed on.”

  Still holding the letter in her hands, Danielle glanced over her shoulder at Walt.

  “I plan to show this letter to Hillary, tell her I know she wrote this, and do what I can to convince her to do the right thing. I’ll remind her it will be fairly easy to prove whoever typed this did so on her typewriter,” MacDonald explained.

  Walt shook his head. “But it wasn’t.”

  “What are you saying, Walt?” Danielle asked.

  MacDonald looked from Danielle to where he imagined Walt must now be standing.

  Walt took the letter from Danielle. From where MacDonald sat, it looked as if the letter floated up from Danielle’s hands and was now suspended over her head.

  “Not sure I’ll ever get used to this,” MacDonald muttered under his breath.

  “This wasn’t typed on the machine upstairs in Hillary’s room,” Walt said. The letter seemingly floated back
down into Danielle’s hands.

  “Walt says this wasn’t typed on Hillary’s typewriter,” Danielle explained.

  “What do you mean? Of course it was,” MacDonald insisted.

  Walt shook his head and took a seat on the sofa next to Danielle. “It’s not the same type style.”

  “Walt says it’s not the same type style,” Danielle told MacDonald.

  “How would he know that?” MacDonald asked.

  Danielle glanced to Walt and flashed a smirk. “Because Walt can be nosey. He’s been reading over Hillary’s shoulder while she types her book.”

  “Don’t blame me. I initially did it to help—but she’s a good writer. And the story’s getting interesting.”

  Standing briefly, Danielle handed the letter back to MacDonald and then sat back down. “If Walt is right, then you’re wasting your time trying to get Hillary to admit she was the witness. And if she didn’t write this, you obviously have another witness out there. Or perhaps it’s a hoax?”

  “If the anonymous writer hadn’t mentioned the part about Jolene blackmailing Steve over an affair with a waitress—something only Jolene and Steve would know—or someone who overheard their argument before Jolene was killed, I wouldn’t give much credence to that letter.”

  “You forget the waitress,” Walt reminded them.

  Danielle looked to Walt. “What do you mean?”

  “The chief just said only Jolene and Steve knew about the blackmail. You forget the waitress knew.”

  “Are you suggesting Carla might have sent that letter?” Danielle asked.

  Walt shrugged. “If Carla is the waitress.”

  “Carla?” MacDonald muttered. “She did claim to be worried over her safety.”

  “Walt has a point,” Danielle said.

  “Maybe she wrote the letter, but that doesn’t mean she witnessed the murder. In fact, I’d be surprised if she did, because the first time I interviewed her, she didn’t come across as someone who had just witnessed her lover murder someone. Unless she’s been a great actress all these years, I’ve always found Carla to be fairly transparent,” MacDonald said.

  “Perhaps Carla is the killer?” Walt suggested.

  “Carla?” Danielle asked.

  “Carla what?” MacDonald asked.

  “Walt suggested Carla might be the killer. Maybe she’s throwing her lover under the bus for this one.”

  “Steve told me Carla had more of a reason to kill Jolene than he did. I don’t buy that,” MacDonald said. “Yet I could see her sending something like this if she thought he was guilty and wanted him locked up because she feared for her life.”

  “I suppose the first thing you need to do is find out what typewriter was used. And then figure out if whoever wrote this was actually a witness,” Danielle said.

  MacDonald refolded the paper and placed it in his shirt pocket. “I’m still not buying into the suggestion this wasn’t written on Hillary’s typewriter.”

  “I can settle that once and for all,” Walt said as he removed the letter from the chief’s shirt pocket.

  MacDonald looked down and watched as the folded piece of paper floated from his shirt pocket, unfolded itself, and hung in midair. “What is he doing?”

  “Tell the chief I’m memorizing this letter,” Walt told her.

  Danielle shrugged. “He says he’s memorizing the letter. Why? I have no clue.”

  “I’m going upstairs to type the same letter on Hillary’s typewriter. You can then compare the two letters and see I was right.”

  “You know how to type?” Danielle asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. We did have typewriters back in my day.”

  “I know. But didn’t you have secretaries to do menial things like typing?” she asked.

  “Haven’t you learned by now, I’m a liberated man,” Walt boasted.

  Danielle laughed. “Liberated man? I betcha back in your day you didn’t use phrases like liberated man.”

  “What are you two talking about?” MacDonald asked.

  “Walt’s memorizing this letter so he can type a duplicate using Hillary’s typewriter, and then you can compare the two.”

  “Sounds like a good idea, but won’t Hillary get a little suspicious when her typewriter starts typing by itself?”

  Danielle laughed. “I’m pretty sure I can lure Hillary downstairs to the kitchen with the promise of chocolate cake. You can join us. And if Walt proves the letter wasn’t written on Hillary’s typewriter, then no reason to mention the letter to her.”

  “While you two decide what you plan to say to Hillary, I’m going upstairs to see what she’s doing. I’m also going to check in on Melony and make sure she’s still sleeping. Then I’ll let you know if it’s a good time to get her to come downstairs.”

  “Walt just left to check on Hillary and make sure Melony is still sleeping in her room. She went up earlier to take a nap.”

  “I suppose we should wait here until Walt returns?”

  Danielle glanced up to the ceiling. “Might as well.”

  “While we’re waiting, why don’t you tell me what you wanted to talk to me about? When I got here, you said you needed to tell me something.”

  “It seems Hillary knows your victim’s daughter.” If Danielle expected the chief to be surprised at her announcement, she was disappointed.

  “Melony stopped by my office earlier. She mentioned she knew Hillary.”

  “And you didn’t find that an interesting coincidence?”

  “When I asked her how she knew Hillary, she said professionally. I asked her if Hillary knew her mother, and she said no.”

  “She told you Hillary had been her client?”

  “Her client?” MacDonald frowned. “No. Hillary was her soon-to-be ex’s client.”

  “Is that what Melony told you?”

  “No. I just assumed that’s what she meant when she said she knew her professionally. Melony’s husband is some sort of an entertainment attorney. He works with authors, people in the movie industry. He handles some pretty famous clients, from what I recall. I just assumed she meant he was Hillary’s attorney.”

  Danielle shook her head. “No. According to Hillary, Melony was her attorney. She never mentioned anything about Melony’s husband.”

  “Melony is Hillary’s attorney?”

  Danielle shrugged. “Technically speaking, I believe Hillary said Melony was her attorney.

  The chief let out a low whistle. “Well, that’s interesting.”

  “Why is that interesting?” Danielle asked.

  “Because Melony is a criminal attorney. She’s handled some high-profile cases over the years.”

  “Criminal attorney?” Danielle asked.

  “Yes. And we’re not talking penny ante stuff—like burglary or fraud.”

  “Burglary and fraud are penny ante?”

  “Compared to capital offenses, yes. I imagine, had Clarence Renton hired his old business partner’s daughter as his attorney when he was arrested for Cheryl’s murder, he might have gotten off. Melony is that good.”

  “Why would Hillary have needed a criminal attorney?” Danielle muttered.

  MacDonald shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  Danielle shivered and glanced up to the ceiling, thinking of who was on the second floor. “Makes the rest of what I wanted to tell you seem even creepier.”

  “Creepy how?”

  Danielle told the chief what Ian had told her about Hillary’s other books—how each of her murder scenes was identical to a crime that had taken place six months prior to that particular book’s release—and each real-life crime remained unsolved.

  “I see what you mean.” MacDonald glanced to the ceiling. “Jolene’s murder scene will be featured in Hillary’s next book…which I imagine will be released in about six months.”

  Chapter Thirty

  She hadn’t changed her clothes, but she had slipped off her shoes before climbing into bed. Wearing dark blue leggings and her
hip-length sweater, Melony hugged one pillow while her head rested on a second one. She had climbed under the sheets and had managed to fall asleep within minutes.

  But an hour had since gone by, and Melony—who rarely took midday catnaps—shifted restlessly on the bed and began to wake up. Groggily fluttering open her eyes, it took her a moment to get her bearings. Mother’s gone—I’m in Frederickport—staying at Marlow House.

  With a yawn, she closed her eyes again, hugged the pillow tighter, rolled onto her side, and told herself, I’ll sleep a few more minutes. She lay there in the silent room, but unlike an hour earlier, she couldn’t fall asleep. Just as she decided she might as well get up, she froze. Instead of opening her eyes, she held firmly onto the pillow, afraid to move.

  Someone is standing over me.

  Too afraid to open her eyes and discover her hunch was correct, she lay perfectly still, practically holding her breath. While she hadn’t seen anyone in her room, she felt it. The inescapable sensation gripped her. The beating of her heart seemed to accelerate and she wondered if she were to scream, would anyone hear her?

  She then remembered Hillary had been in the next room typing her book when Melony had first come up the stairs. For a brief moment Melony imagined it was Hillary who had invaded her room and now stood over her. That thought terrified her. But then she heard it, the faint tapping of the keys of a typewriter. She could barely hear it through the wall separating her room from Hillary’s.

  Maybe I’m imagining things.

  Mustering her courage, Melony opened her eyes and bolted upright in the bed, prepared to fight. To her amazement, she was alone. Dazed, she looked around the room and then leaned back against the headboard. Again, she heard the faint rapping of the typewriter keys.

  She sat there a moment, took a deep breath, and chastised herself for being so edgy. After considering the events of the last few days, she decided she was being too hard on herself. Who wouldn’t be out of sorts under similar circumstances?

  She lay there a few more minutes and then finally climbed out of bed and stretched. Walking over to the dresser, she looked into the mirror. Leaning closer to her reflection, she used the tip of one finger to gently wipe away a smudge of mascara under one eye.