The Ghost and the Muse (Haunting Danielle Book 10)

by Bobbi Holmes

  “I forgot it’s trash day tomorrow,” Heather explained when she reached the curb and found Hillary standing there watching.

  “Looks like you remembered.”

  “Yeah. After I was already in bed.” Heather looked Hillary up and down. “What are you doing out in the dark. Aren’t you cold?”

  “I’m checking out in the morning. Thought I’d get in one more moonlight walk along the beach. And why would I be cold?”

  Heather frowned. “You aren’t wearing a jacket.” She shivered. “It’s freaking freezing out here.”

  Hillary shrugged. “Maybe I’m not over those hot flashes.”

  Hugging her robe tightly around her, Heather shivered again. “I don’t know about hot flashes, but I’m freezing. Have a nice walk.” Heather turned toward her house and started back up the driveway.

  “You will one day!” Hillary called out with a laugh. Chuckling, she continued down the block several doors before crossing the street and cutting between two houses, making her way to the ocean.

  Hillary found herself alone on the beach under the moonlight, its glow casting a golden shadow over the water. Breathing in the salt air, she stood at the water’s edge, looking out to sea.

  She wasn’t sure how long she had been standing there before motion in the water, some distance from shore, caught her attention. Leaning forward and narrowing her eyes, she studied the stretch of rippling water illuminated by the moonlight. The shimmering path glimmered and sparkled, reminding Hillary of buoyant diamonds—a fanciful notion, but one that popped into her head. In the midst of those diamonds was what appeared to be the arms of a man swimming toward her, his feet kicking furiously behind him.

  With a steady stroke, he persistently made his way toward her. The moment he reached the shore, he stumbled from the water and stood upright. By his expression, it was obvious he was surprised to find someone standing on the beach, watching him.

  Hillary’s eyes widened. She recognized the man. “Steve Klein? What in the world are you doing out swimming at this time of night? And do you always go swimming in your clothes?”

  Steve stared at Hillary. At first, he hadn’t recognized her. But it was Hillary Hemingway, the mystery writer staying at Marlow House. He had initially met her after she had first arrived in town, when she had come into the bank and needed some assistance in transferring funds. He’d seen her around town a few times, the most recently less than two weeks earlier, when he’d seen her at Pier Café the night Jolene Carmichael had been murdered.

  “I fell off the damn pier. Isn’t that obvious?” Steve took a step toward Hillary.

  “Well…not really.” Hillary glanced up the beach in the direction of the pier. “Are you saying you swam all the way down here? Why didn’t you just swim up to shore by the pier?”

  Hands now on hips, he looked at Hillary. “Aren’t you even curious how I managed to fall off the pier?”

  “Umm…yes…of course. Are you alright?”

  Steve scratched his forehead. “I think so. But I knocked my head on the pier when I fell.” He turned slightly so she could see his injury.

  Hillary leaned closer and looked. “That’s nasty looking.”

  “It doesn’t hurt anymore. It all happened so fast.”

  “You didn’t break anything, did you? That’s quite a fall.”

  “You’re telling me! But no, nothing seems to be broken. One minute I’m fishing quietly on the pier, and the next minute I get a severe allergic reaction, and I can’t find my damn EpiPen. I always keep one in my tackle box. Especially when I’m fishing.”

  Hillary frowned. “Why especially when you’re fishing?”

  “I’m allergic to shellfish—it’s a pretty bad allergy. Sometimes just handling shellfish can cause me a problem.”

  Hillary arched her brow. “You’ve a severe allergy to shellfish, and you were fishing…on the pier…in the ocean?”

  He shrugged. “Well, it’s only shellfish. And while I’ve had a couple mishaps before, I always had the EpiPen. It’s not like I’m fishing with shrimp.”

  “So what happened?”

  Hands still on his hips, he turned to face the pier, shaking his head. “I just finished eating my tamales, drank some of my coffee, and then, well, it just hit. I couldn’t breathe, and the next thing I know, I’m falling off the damn pier, hit my head. Could have killed myself.”

  “Was it something you ate—drank?”

  He shook his head. “No. I mean, not what I ate exactly. But what probably happened, there must have been some raw shellfish on the dock, maybe on the railing. I might have touched something down there and then transferred it to my food—and into my mouth.”

  Hillary frowned. “Are you saying something like that could actually send you into anaphylactic shock, one severe enough to make you fall off the pier?”

  Steve shrugged. “It must have.”

  “If that’s the case, do you think it’s wise to go fishing—especially ocean fishing?”

  Steve let out a sigh. “I may have to rethink that. Well, I guess I better go get my car, it’s still at the pier, along with my fishing equipment, providing no one took off with it.” With a farewell salute, Steve turned from Hillary and started down the beach toward the pier.

  Hillary continued to stand in the same spot under the moonlight, watching Steve until he was no more than a dark silhouette. It was then she noticed a second person, walking in her direction from the pier. Whoever it was, he or she stopped, as did Steve. She surmised the two were talking. After a few moments, Steve started back on his way, and the second shadowy figure started walking again—in her direction.

  Looking back to sea, Hillary took a deep breath and smiled. The night before she had finished her newest book. She had already tucked the manuscript into her briefcase. After she returned to Vancouver, Washington, she would have it typed up—using a word processor—so she could do the rewrites on the computer. While it was true she used a manual typewriter when writing her first draft, she’d never consider making tedious rewrites using the typewriter. She often led people to believe she never used a computer, which she felt better fit her image—that of a serious, old-school writer.

  Her thoughts shifted from the tools of her craft to the source of her inspiration—her muse. If she wanted to get technical, the term muse was somewhat misleading. A muse was typically a female. Her muse was definitely not a female. She wondered, was Danielle right? Was she really a clairvoyant and the regular appearance of her muse was nothing more than her clairvoyant gift showing her real events in her dreams—giving her clues that might help her solve over a dozen cold cases?

  Letting out a sigh, Hillary felt overwhelmed. She had promised Danielle she would try remembering her past dreams and pay closer attention to the faces of the killers, and perhaps use that information to help local authorities solve the old crimes. Yet the truth was Hillary didn’t really want to get involved. After all, how would she explain her information to the police? The more she thought about it, the more she didn’t want to have anything to do with playing real-life detective.

  She could recall what it had been like when the police had once brought her in for questioning—suspecting she might have been involved with the past murders, because why else did she know what she did? No, she did not want to go through that again.

  Turning from the ocean, she glanced back toward the pier. She could no longer see Steve in the darkness, but the second person—the shadowy form who had minutes earlier been talking with Steve, stepped into view.

  Hilary’s eyes widened when she saw his face. Without thought, she asked with a gasp, “What are you doing here?”

  “Hillary? Seriously?” He groaned. “What are you doing here? Oh—never mind. I know the answer to that question.”

  “You know who I am?” she asked in surprise.

  “Well, of course. Haven’t we known each other, what—ten, eleven years now?”

  Confused, she shook her head in denial. “This do
esn’t make any sense.”

  “Oh, it will.”

  Abruptly, Hillary stepped back, taking a defensive stance. “If you try to kill me, someone will hear me. I can scream very loud, and we’re not that far from a house. I imagine I could scream loud enough for someone at the pier to hear me!”

  He laughed sardonically. “Seriously? That’s what you’re thinking?” Turning from her, he continued his walk down the beach—away from her—away from the pier.

  Perplexed, she watched him for a few moments and then called out, “Wait!”

  He paused a moment and turned and faced her. “What?”

  “You mean you aren’t going to kill me?”

  Wearily, he shook his head. “Now I understand why it never worked. You were never the right one to help me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It really doesn’t matter now.”

  “You don’t care that I recognized you?” she asked.

  He shrugged and turned away again.

  “You don’t care that I saw you kill her?” she called out, unable to resist asking the question.

  Pausing a moment, he turned back to face her again and smiled. “Not particularly.”

  She stared at him for a moment before asking, “Who are you? What’s your name?”

  He smiled again. “Do you know, that’s the first time you’ve ever asked me that question. In all these years, you never asked. Antoine Paul. I’m Antoine Paul.”

  “Antoine Paul?” The name meant nothing to Hillary.

  Shoving his hands into the pockets of his black dress slacks, he turned from Hillary again and proceeded to walk down the beach, leaving Hillary Hemingway staring at his departing form with a look of confusion on her face.

  Three

  Danielle overslept on Friday morning. When she finally managed to pry open her sleep-laden eyes and look at the clock radio sitting on her nightstand, it took her a few moments for reality to sink in, and when it did, she bolted from the bed and hastily dressed. It was almost 9 am. She never slept in that late when guests were in the house, and Hillary had announced she would be leaving right after breakfast—right after an 8:00 a.m. breakfast.

  Dashing into the hallway, she looked over to Hillary’s room. The door was shut. If Hillary was preparing to check out, she would expect the door to be open. Danielle hoped to find her guest downstairs at the breakfast table. She prayed she hadn’t left already. Danielle would feel horrible if she had missed saying goodbye to Hillary.

  Once she reached the first floor, Danielle went to the dining room and looked in. The table was set, but by its appearance, breakfast hadn’t yet been served. She headed for the kitchen.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Lily greeted Danielle when she burst into the room. Lily sat with Joanne at the kitchen table as the two drank coffee.

  Danielle headed for the coffee pot to pour herself a cup. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  Lily shrugged and sipped her coffee. “Why would we? I figured you needed your sleep. And since Hillary hasn’t come down yet, I didn’t see what the big deal was.”

  “I thought Hillary wanted to get an early start back to Vancouver?” Joanne asked. “I expected her to be downstairs an hour ago.”

  Danielle joined Lily and her housekeeper at the table, a fresh cup of coffee in hand. “That’s what she told me. You mean you haven’t seen her this morning?”

  “Her door was still shut when I came downstairs,” Lily said.

  “Maybe she got in late last night.” Danielle sipped her coffee and then paused. She looked at Lily. “She did come back, didn’t she?”

  Lily frowned and set her cup down on the table. “About that. I don’t know what the heck you were talking about last night. But Hillary was sleeping soundly in her room when you went to bed last night.”

  Danielle shook her head and frowned. “No, she wasn’t. I was in the parlor when she stopped by to tell me she was going for a walk.”

  “Did you see her leave the house?” Lily asked.

  “No, but I just assumed she did. When I walked out into the hall, she was already gone.”

  “She must have changed her mind and came back upstairs and went to bed. Who knows, maybe Hillary’s a sleepwalker. All I know, when I looked in her room after you went to bed, she was sleeping.”

  “I don’t know anything about Hillary going out last night,” Joanne said. “But don’t you think one of you should wake her up? She did say she wanted to get on the road early. From what she told me yesterday, she intended to leave by now.”

  Danielle stood up. “You’re probably right.”

  “I’ll get the bacon on.” Joanne stood.

  “You don’t have to come upstairs with me,” Danielle told Lily as the two headed to the second floor.

  “I just wanted to tell you I thought you were losing it last night,” Lily said in a low whisper before giving way to a mischievous giggle.

  “Why didn’t you tell me she was in her room last night?”

  “I didn’t know until after you went to bed.” Lily shrugged.

  “Why did you look in on her, anyway?” Danielle stepped onto the second-floor landing.

  “I don’t know. Being nosey, I guess. You know, she never locks her door.” Lily followed Danielle to Hillary’s room.

  “I noticed that. I always lock my bedroom door, at least when there are guests in the house,” Danielle confessed.

  “Me too.”

  Together the two women stood outside Hillary’s bedroom door. Danielle knocked.

  No response.

  Danielle glanced to the bathroom across the hall from Hillary’s room. Its door was open and the light was off. Hillary was obviously not in the bathroom. Danielle knocked again, this time louder.

  No response.

  “Wow. I didn’t realize Hillary was such a sound sleeper,” Lily said.

  Danielle knocked again even louder. When there was still no response, she gingerly turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. She peeked inside. The morning sunlight streamed through the window; the curtain had not been closed the night before. Danielle could see Hillary sleeping in the bed, her back turned to them.

  “Hillary! Oh, Hillary!” Danielle called out in a loud whisper. Still no response.

  Hesitantly, she walked to the bed and reached out, gently touching the older woman’s shoulder, giving it a gentle nudge. “Hillary, wake up…” Danielle froze.

  The next moment, Danielle snatched back her hand. “Oh my god!”

  Not waiting for Danielle to explain, Lily rushed to the other side of the bed and looked at Hillary’s face. Hillary stared at her through open, unblinking eyes.

  “Looks like she’s been dead for hours,” Officer Brian Henderson told Danielle as the responders took Hillary’s body out to the waiting van.

  Notepad in hand, Brian stood in the middle of the living room, the door leading to the hallway wide open, making it possible for the living room occupants to witness Hillary’s departure.

  Ian, who had arrived at Marlow House just minutes after Danielle had called for the police, sat on the living room sofa, Lily by his side, her hand in his. Across from the pair, Joanne sat on the edge of a chair, her hands nervously twisting in her lap. Danielle stood by the fireplace with Walt—who only Danielle could see.

  “Do you have any idea what happened?” Lily asked.

  “Looks like a heart attack. She had heart medication in her purse.” Brian looked up from his notepad. “We’ll know more later. Did she give a name of someone to call in case of an emergency?”

  “Heart medication?” Danielle asked. “I didn’t realize she even had a heart problem.”

  “Maybe a family member?” Brian rephrased the question.

  Danielle shook her head. “I really don’t know. She never talked about family. I don’t think she had any kids. If she did, she never said anything to me. She did mention she’d been married twice. But I have no idea if she was divorced from her husbands o
r widowed.”

  “Widowed twice.” Ian spoke up. “And she doesn’t have any children.”

  “You knew her well?” Brian asked.

  Ian shook his head. “No, I’d never met her before—not until she checked in here. But I was a fan. I’ve read every Hillary Hemingway mystery. I’ve seen a few of her interviews, read some articles about her. But other than knowing she has no children and lost two husbands, I’ve no idea who her closest relative might be.”

  “What about Melony?” Lily suggested.

  “Melony?” Danielle looked at Lily. “That’s right.”

  “Melony?” Brian asked.

  “You know, Melony Jacobs. Jolene Carmichael’s daughter. She was Hillary’s attorney—well, she represented her once. I imagine she’d know who we need to contact,” Danielle explained.

  “If she doesn’t, I’m sure I can find out who her agent is,” Ian offered.

  “Didn’t Melony go back to New York?” Brian asked.

  “Yeah, but she’s friends with the chief. I’m sure he could call her.”

  Brian nodded and jotted something down in his notepad. He then looked up. “Joanne mentioned something about you thinking Hillary had gone out last night?”

  “Oh, that was just a misunderstanding,” Danielle said quickly. “I thought she had gone out, but she must have gone back to bed.”

  “And died…” Brian mumbled, again jotting something down on the paper.

  “Hillary did see me last night,” Walt said suddenly.

  Danielle looked over at Walt, her expression questioning.

  “Last night, when she came into the parlor, she saw me. That was Hillary’s spirit we saw last night. She was already dead when Lily looked into her room,” Walt explained before vanishing. He went to the attic to look outside to watch the activity on the street in front of Marlow House.

  “When was the last time anyone saw Hillary last night?” Brian asked.

  “I imagine that would be me, when I peeked into her room last night before going to bed. She was sleeping. Or…well, I assumed she was sleeping.” Lily squeezed Ian’s hand. Silently, he looked into her green eyes and returned the squeeze.