by Bobbi Holmes
“Here? You can’t stay here!” Danielle insisted.
“Why not? He is?” Hillary pointed to Walt.
“In my defense, this was my house.”
“So I’ll find somewhere else to haunt.”
“Hillary, you really don’t want to do that. Our spirits aren’t meant to stay here and haunt indefinitely. You have a journey; you need to take it.”
“Oh poo, what do you know? I don’t see you asking pretty boy here to leave.”
Walt arched his brows. “Pretty boy?”
“Hillary, if you don’t want to leave, perhaps it’s a sign that you need to first solve the murders,” Danielle suggested.
“What murders?”
“The murders your muse told you about, of course.”
“Those aren’t my concern anymore. I’m dead myself.”
The next moment Danielle’s cellphone buzzed, indicating an incoming text message. After reading it, she said, “That’s Lily, she wants to know if she and Ian can come over now.”
“Why is she asking?” Hillary asked.
“Ian doesn’t know about Danielle’s gift, yet Lily does,” Walt explained. “So when they come over here, they won’t be able to see or hear you.”
“But I can see and hear them?”
Walt nodded. “Yes.”
“This sounds interesting.” Hillary smiled and leaned back in her seat. “Have them come over.”
Danielle groaned and then called Lily. When Lily answered, she said, “There’s really no reason to stay away. Hillary understands she’s dead, but she’s not ready to move on.”
By the time Lily, Ian, and Sadie arrived at Marlow House, Danielle, Walt, and Hillary had moved to the living room. Danielle sat on the sofa while Walt sat next to her, perched on the sofa’s arm. Hillary stood by the fireplace, giddy at the prospect of playing the invisible woman while eavesdropping on the unsuspecting mortals. She forgot for a moment that while Lily could not see or hear her, she was still aware of her existence. It was only Ian who would be totally unaware of her presence.
Sadie galloped into the living room, Lily and Ian trailing behind her. The moment Sadie spied Walt, she ran to the sofa to greet him. Danielle reached down to Sadie, patting her back while giving her a gentle nudge. Sadie sat down, leaning against Danielle’s legs while looking up at Walt.
“We were wondering if you wanted to go to Pearl Cove with us for dinner tonight,” Ian asked when he entered the room with Lily. “Maybe Chris would like to go too.”
Before Danielle had a chance to answer the question, Sadie noticed Hillary standing by the fireplace. With a bark, she leapt up and dashed to Hillary, planting herself before her. With her butt in the air, tail wagging, front paws firmly planted wide apart and her head lowered, she persistently barked.
Hillary’s eyes widened as she looked down at the large golden retriever, who appeared to be ready to pounce at any moment. Jumping back, Hillary let out a scream.
“I thought they couldn’t see me!”
“Sadie, stop that!” Ian ordered, to no avail. Sadie continued to bark, her pouncing stance more determined as she focused her attention on Hillary.
“Get her off me!” Hillary shouted.
“She’s not on you…yet.” Walt chuckled.
Danielle and Lily exchanged glances.
“Sadie!” Ian shouted again.
“I think she sees something,” Lily whispered.
“Whose voice is that? I can hear someone talking to me!” Hillary shouted. “Someone do something!”
Walt laughed again. “It’s Sadie. She’s not going to hurt you. You’re dead, remember? Sadie is just saying hello.”
The dog lunged at Hillary. Shrieking, Hillary ran from the room, Sadie trailing behind her.
Twelve
Monday’s moon, more than half full, cast a golden trail across the ocean’s surface while the stars above hid from view. Picture windows flanked the west wall of Pearl Cove, providing a scenic backdrop for its diners.
The server led the four friends to a half-circle booth under one of the windows. Lily and Danielle sat down first, each entering from an opposite end of the booth. Once scooted in, they were sitting next to each other. Ian entered the booth seat on Lily’s side while Chris sat next to Danielle. After ordering cocktails, they each picked up a menu and proceeded to glance through it.
When making plans for dinner, Danielle had informed Chris of Hillary’s appearance. Hillary, who had managed to escape Sadie’s pursuit by running into the downstairs bedroom—through its closed door—refused to leave the bedroom. Danielle had no idea if she was still there, she was just glad the newly departed mystery writer hadn’t followed her to the restaurant.
“Have you heard anything about Hillary?” Ian asked just as Danielle took a sip of water. His question—considering she had heard from Hillary—prompted her to choke. Chris gently patted her back.
Frowning, Ian studied Danielle. “Are you okay?”
“Umm…yeah…” Danielle coughed. “It just went down wrong.”
“We stopped by the police station this afternoon,” Chris told him. “It looks like it was a heart attack, just like we suspected. Her body is being cremated and then sent to Vancouver for the memorial service.”
“Lily said you boxed up all her belongings and mailed them to her attorney?”
“Not her attorney exactly, but the address he gave Melony,” Danielle explained. “We mailed her manuscript to her agent.”
“Really? That sort of surprises me.”
Before Danielle could ask Ian what he meant, the server arrived with their cocktails. After she left the table, Danielle asked, “Why does that surprise you?”
Ian shrugged. “I would think it would go into probate. I imagine that manuscript is worth a fortune, considering everything.”
Danielle picked up her cocktail. “From what I understand, it had something to do with the terms of the contract Hillary had with her publisher and agent.”
Ian raised his glass in toast. “Here’s to Hillary Hemingway, may your books remain on the bestseller list for decades to come.”
Joining Ian in the toast, they all raised their glasses briefly and then took a sip.
After a few moments, Danielle asked, “Ian, do you know which of Hillary’s books was her first murder mystery? I remember her telling me she used to write romance, but switched genres about ten years ago.”
Pondering the question, Ian sipped his cocktail. “Beautiful Rage.”
“Beautiful Rage? Do you know anything about the real murder—the one some believed Hillary based her murder scene on?” Danielle asked.
“I want to know why it was called Beautiful Rage,” Lily asked.
Ian glanced to Lily. “That’s easy. The killer in the book was very handsome, some even described him as beautiful.”
“Ahh…so Mr. Beautiful went into a rage and killed the victim?” Lily asked.
Ian nodded. “Pretty much.”
“Do you know anything about the real murder?” Danielle asked again.
“Actually, I do.” Ian sat back in the booth seat, his left arm casually draped over Lily’s shoulders. “In the book the victim is a young woman—mid-twenties—and she’s coming out of a restaurant with—” he paused a moment and smiled at Lily “—Mr. Beautiful. They’re arguing. It appears they’re walking to a car parked in the parking lot, but then Mr. Beautiful grabs hold of her arm and drags her off to a nearby alley. They’re arguing, and the next thing we know he begins shaking her, and she falls to the ground. The scene ends with him kneeling by her body as he strangles her.”
“So what happened in the real story?” Danielle asked.
“The woman who was really killed—if Hillary did pattern the scene after her murder—was also in her mid-twenties. Very attractive and married to a wealthy businessman. She was last seen leaving a restaurant with an unidentified man, who, according to witnesses, was good looking. They appeared to be arguing and walking toward the pa
rking lot. She was found the next morning in the alley. She had been strangled.”
“Do you know where this happened?” Danielle asked.
“I’m pretty sure it was Portland.”
“You wouldn’t happen to remember what the killer was wearing?”
“I do. It was one of the reasons some insisted Hillary patterned the scene after that particular murder. Like the man the witnesses described leaving the restaurant with the victim, Hillary’s killer also wore a black suit and red bow tie.”
When Danielle and Lily returned home Monday evening, Hillary was not there. According to Walt, she had left shortly after they had, saying she was looking for someplace interesting to haunt.
Danielle had showered and shampooed, slipped on clean pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, and sat on her bed, the laptop computer open on her lap. Her damp hair, still wrapped in a towel, was piled atop her head.
“I thought you were going to sleep?” Walt asked when he appeared in her room, taking a seat on the edge of her mattress.
Danielle looked up from her computer. “I’d like to find out a little more about Hillary’s muse since the guy seems to be hanging around.”
“Do you honestly believe he’s dangerous?” Walt asked, remembering what Danielle had told him earlier.
“Like Stoddard, I’d rather he not hang around. If I just knew something about him, maybe I can figure out some way to nudge him onto the next level.”
“Considering he murdered that woman, I don’t imagine he’s anxious to move on.”
“Perhaps. Do you think Hillary’s going to come back here?”
Walt shrugged. “If she can’t find anyone to talk to, I wouldn’t be surprised. I imagine she’ll get a little bored wandering around, being strictly an observer, unable to make any comment someone can actually hear. After all, she is a writer. Writers tend to want to express themselves. And if she continues to wander about, she won’t have enough energy to do anything more than make an occasional light flicker.”
“Of course, if she decides to land somewhere, she could manage to harness her energy.”
“True. But let’s not tell her that. Okay? I would prefer she not attach herself to Marlow House.”
“I agree.” Danielle turned her attention back to the computer.
“I’ll leave you to play detective.” Walt disappeared.
It took Danielle just a few keystrokes to find Hillary’s Beautiful Rage. Clicking on its thumbnail, Danielle watched as Beautiful Rage’s book cover filled the screen. Dark and shadowy, the image was of a man dressed in a dark suit and red bow tie, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned casually against a wall facing a dark back alley. Sprawled lifeless at his feet was the murder victim, her blonde hair fanning around her, framing her crumpled body. The man on the cover looked nothing like the muse who’d invaded Danielle’s dream, yet that did not surprise her. After all, how would the cover artist know what the real killer looked like?
Leaning back against the headboard and settling into the bed, she adjusted her laptop. Leaving the website featuring Hillary’s first book, she began searching for information regarding the first murder.
Pausing mid-keystroke, she looked up and said aloud, “Antoine Paul. That’s what Hillary said his name was.”
Quickly typing Antoine Paul, she was disappointed when nothing useful came up in the search. She added a second word to the search: Portland. Still nothing.
After fifteen minutes of futile search, Danielle abandoned her efforts and focused her attention back on the real murder that had inspired Beautiful Rage.
“Bingo!” Danielle cried out when she found what she was looking for.
It was past midnight when Danielle slipped out of her bedroom. A towel was no longer wrapped around her head, and she drew a brush through her tangled hair as she headed to the attic.
Just as she stepped onto the stairwell leading to the upper floor, Lily walked out of the hall bathroom. Like Danielle, Lily wore sleepwear.
“Where are you sneaking off to?” Lily teased.
Danielle paused and turned to Lily. “Good, you’re awake. Why don’t you come with me to see Walt.”
“Gee, are you sure you want me to come?” Lily smirked.
Danielle tossed her head dramatically. “I did a little research on the muse’s victim. I thought you’d like to hear too, but if you aren’t interested…” Danielle turned back to the stairs, resuming her brushing as she continued on her way.
“Hey, you aren’t getting rid of me that quick.” Lily hurried to the stairwell, following Danielle to the attic.
When they entered the attic, Danielle found Walt standing by the spotting scope while Max napped on the nearby sofa bed.
Danielle glanced around quickly. “Any sign of Hillary?”
“None.” Walt strolled to the sofa and sat down.
Looking toward the spotting scope, Lily smiled. “Hi, Walt.”
“He’s no longer standing there, Lily. He’s sitting on the sofa next to Max now.”
Lily glared at Danielle. “I think you do that just to mess with me.”
Danielle frowned. “Do what?”
“Look where Walt’s not standing when talking to him.”
“He was standing by the window when we came in. I can’t force him to stay in one spot!”
Walt leaned back on the sofa and casually summoned a cigar. “You two didn’t come up here just to argue, did you? There was a purpose for this midnight visit?”
Danielle let out a sigh and walked to the sofa, taking a seat next to Walt. “Of course. I wanted to tell you—” Danielle paused a moment and looked at Lily, who now stood by the spotting scope “—and Lily, what I found out tonight. I did a little online sleuthing.”
“Ahh, playing Nancy Drew again, are we?” Lily grabbed a nearby folding chair and dragged it to the sofa. She sat down and faced Danielle.
“Yep. I first did a search on the name Hillary gave me for the muse. But nothing came up. Oh, I found a few people named Antoine Paul, but none looked remotely like the spirit who barged into our dream hop.”
“Maybe that’s not his real name,” Lily suggested.
“Perhaps. But the murder took place over a decade ago. If that was his name, he didn’t leave any sort of online presence.”
Walt fiddled with his cigar, absently watching the smoke curl as he asked, “Did you find anything interesting about the real murder?”
“Not really. I saw a picture of the woman who was killed. So sad. Just like Ian told us, she was young, mid-twenties. I guess she was married to an older guy; he had a lot of money. They didn’t have any kids. It’s still a cold case. What they do know about her last hours pretty much matches what Hillary wrote in her book. She left the restaurant with this good-looking guy. He was wearing a dark suit and a red bow tie, and she was strangled.”
“What about the husband?” Walt asked.
“What do you mean?” Danielle asked.
“It’s been my personal experience a spouse is often the killer.”
“Yeah, well, this spouse was in California when his wife was murdered. I don’t think he was considered a suspect for more than two seconds.”
Walt shrugged. “My wife was in Portland when I was murdered. And we know how that turned out.”
“I suspect Melissa Huxley’s murder had more to do with a bored young wife looking in the wrong place for a little excitement and finding more than she bargained for,” Danielle suggested.
“Melissa Huxley? Was that the name of the woman who was murdered?” Lily asked.
“Yes.”
Lily frowned. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“You know a Melissa Huxley?”
Lily shook her head. “No, the name Huxley. I swear I just met someone with that name.”
Thirteen
When Danielle went to bed that night, she kept thinking about what Lily had said. When had she heard that name? In the morning her thoughts were still on the murder, yet in
stead of trying to figure out why Huxley sounded oddly familiar—as if she had just met someone by that name—she decided to search on Newspaper Archives, looking for any old newspaper articles on Antoine Paul and if possible, any connection between him and the murdered woman.
The first article she pulled up did not mention Paul, but it did give a brief biography of the murdered woman. Settling back on the bed with her laptop, Danielle began to read about the tragic death of the lovely Melissa Huxley, who had been brutally murdered at such a young age, and of her husband, the wealthy and successful Baron Huxley…
Danielle bolted up straight in the bed. “Baron Huxley?” She read a few more lines and then frantically searched for a photograph showing the widower. After a few more minutes of searching and skimming articles, she shoved the laptop onto the mattress and leapt from the bed. Danielle dashed into the hallway and to Lily’s room, knocking frantically on the door. She was about to open the door when it flew open.
Lily stood in the doorway, her sleepy eyes glaring at Danielle. “What?” she asked sharply. “Please tell me the house is on fire or I will have to kill you.”
“I know why the name sounded familiar!” Danielle said excitedly.
“What in the world are you talking about? And what time is it anyway?” Lily turned from Danielle and stumbled back into her room, looking for the cellphone she had left on the nightstand. She picked it up and looked at the time.
Following Lily into the room, Danielle said, “It was Beverly’s friend. The guy at her house on Sunday.”
“Do you know it isn’t even six yet? I may miss teaching, but I don’t miss getting up this early…wait, what did you just say?”
“Huxley. That’s the last name of the man we met at Beverly’s house. Not only that, he has the same first name as Melissa’s husband.”
Rubbing sleep from her eyes, Lily sat down on the edge of the mattress. “I don’t get it.”
“The first murder—the one that inspired Hillary’s first book—the victim in the real crime was named Melissa Huxley.”
Waving her hand dismissively, Lily shook her head and said, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get that. But what’s all this about a husband?”
