Little Ghost Lost (Destiny Bay Cozy Mysteries Book 5)

by J. D. Winters

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Copyright © 2015 Helen Conrad

  Cover Copyright © 2015 DoorKnock Publishing

  Cover images from Shutterstock.com

  First Edition December, 2015

  Little Ghost Lost

  A Destiny Bay Cozy Mystery

  By J.D. Winters

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  My Mailing List!

  Bebe’s Orange Chicken

  Also in the Cozy Mystery Series

  Also in the Destiny Bay series

  ABOUT AUTHOR

  Chapter One

  I knew before I’d unlocked the huge carved door and crossed the antique threshold, that the big old Victorian mansion was haunted.

  Funny. Just a few months before, I wouldn’t have noticed. But lately I’d become acutely aware of the spiritual world that exists in a parallel space right next to us—its wonders and its dangers.

  The question I had to ask was this: was I, Mele Keahi, realist and seeker of truth, happier this way? Was I a happier person just knowing?

  Hmm. The vote hadn’t come in on that one yet.

  “Hello!” I called out, hesitating in the entryway. I knew no one would answer, but it didn’t feel right just barging in when there were ghosts living there.

  Did I say “living”? Hah.

  Bottom line, there were ghosts and my first order of business was to make sure they didn’t know I could see them.

  The thing is, you just don’t know what kind of characters you’re going to have to deal with. I’ve got a couple of ghosts in my life who are great friends—Aunty Jane and a youngish man named Dante. They’re both pretty benign-at least so far—I’ve learned not to count on things staying on your side. But I’ve known of others that were just the opposite and did some pretty horrible things to the people who ran into them—or tried to live with them in the house.

  In fact, if a ghost decides to make your life a living hell, there’s not a lot you can do about it. Who are you going to go to for help? No one will believe you, and even if they did, what could they do to hold a ghost to account? Some of these lingering spirits are pretty angry and they do what they do as a way of lashing out at people who are still alive. They know there will be no consequences, so they do what they feel like doing—raw rage and frustration on display. I’ve known of people who had to pack up and move out once a ghost decided it had it in for them. Things just got too terrifying to tolerate.

  This was an issue I’d been having myself lately. Could I take all these ghostly encounters? Or was it time to move on and find a ghost-free place to be?

  So my heart was beating like crazy and my breath was coming fast as I walked into the Pennington House, named for Alexander Matthew Pennington whose family had owned it for years. I didn’t know what was going to be coming at me. And if the spirits here got wind of my ability to see them, it could only be that much worse for me.

  I walked through the entryway and into the library. The smell of molding paper and decaying fabric filled the air and something alive—probably a mouse—ran for cover into the fireplace. So far, so good. Mice I could handle, as long as they were alive.

  Only a few pieces of furniture remained but what was there was heavy and serious-looking: leather and hardwood, polished and well-finished, but sadly neglected lately. The floors were covered by huge, dirty Persian rugs and the walls were papered and sported wainscoting that had once been fancy, but now looked sad. A thick layer of dust covered everything, turning the room a dull, depressing gray.

  A sound came through like a slight breeze. It was a moan--actually, a signal. Oh yeah. There was someone here who didn’t want me to stay. I pretended to ignore it, but it wasn’t easy. Trying to lift my spirits—so to speak!—I started humming a jaunty tune, just to show the ghosts that I wasn’t going to be intimidated.

  But quietly, I was wishing I’d brought my friend Jill along. At the very least, I was going to try to stick to newer construction in the future. Less chance of spooky stuff.

  But this time I’d had no choice. Vlad, the Impaler—my not-so-respectful nickname for my new boss at City Hall—actually, his name was Vance--had handed this assignment to me even though he knew very well I was heavily involved in putting together the Wine Festival Weekend for Thanksgiving.

  “Here’s a little project that’s right down your alley,” he’d said with an evil grin as he handed me the particulars. He was on his way out to his regular mid-morning visit to Mad for Mocha and we both knew it, but still he had time to try to scuttle my peace of mind. “And anyway, nobody else wants it. So it’s yours.”

  “Mine?” I’d squeaked. “But….”

  “Yours,” he’d repeated, already half way out the door to my office, with visions of mochas and lattes obviously filling his senses. “And I expect a full report before the next council meeting so I can know what my recommendation should be. Unless you don’t think you can do it? Hmm?”

  I forced a smile because I knew what he was implying. If I couldn’t handle things, he had a niece who would be perfect for this job, and she just happened to be looking for work right now. He’d already filled me in on that one.

  He was actually a pretty good-looking older guy, with a definite swagger that told a tale of romantic conquests in his youth. He had a gleam in his eye alright. Very annoying. It made him think he could get his way with the ladies, even though he’d developed a potbelly and a receding hairline over the years.

  The thing is, if he would just act a little nicer, I’m sure I would find all these qualities endearingly touching instead of jarring and pathetic. You can forgive a lot in a man if he just tries a little harder. But Vlad was the kind of guy who always laughed a little too loudly and made inappropriate jokes about cleavage as he put his arm around your shoulders in a much too familiar way. Yuck.

  “Don’t worry,” I’d told him, carefully keeping the edge out of my voice. “I’ll go out there today.”

  And here I was.

  Probate had just cleared on the old house, even though it had been donated to the city a couple of years ago. Now the question was, what to do with it. The hope was that we could turn it into a showplace, a museum of what life was like over one hundred years ago here in this sweet little beach town-North Destiny Bay. Let’s face it—the hope was that it could be a money-making tourist attraction. So I’d been sent over to check out those prospects and file a report on my opinion on the matter. I knew I was going to have to consult with some other agencies before I could make a comprehensive judgment. And I also knew that good old Vlad was against the whole thing.

  “Here’s what I think we should do,” I’d overheard him saying to Gladys, his secretary, just the day before. “Knock the old wreck down and make way for a roller skating rink. That’s what the people want, something to do, and we can j
ockey with the zoning. Now my brother-in-law has a company that could put up a facility in a matter of weeks….”

  If I brought in an answer Vlad didn’t go for, I knew very well my job could be in trouble.

  So I was torn. Make Vlad’s brother-in-law happy, or renovate an old Victorian house in the style it belonged to? Despite the fact that it would make a lot more work for me, I was leaning toward the latter.

  Only now the prospect of ghosts was giving me second thoughts. Did I really want to have to deal with that?

  Ghosts could be a real problem. To begin with, they’re a pain in the neck. Right now I could see a couple, just out of sight, flashing around corners just before I got there, like clouds that evaporated if you tried to meet them head on. I’d turn into a hallway and a breeze as cold and clammy as a tomb would hit me in the face and I knew….

  Oh well. It was what it was and I had to grin and bear it.

  I walked into the kitchen, and there was one, big as life, sitting at the kitchen table and listening to an old fashioned radio. He looked very much like a real live human being, only dressed in the fashion of another era, long, long ago. He was leaning toward the radio, mumbling incoherently. And then actual words came out, loud.

  “Come on, you bums,” he yelled, slapping the table with the flat of his hand, and it took all my self-control to keep from jumping. “Brooklyn Dodgers, hell! More like Brooklyn Dopes.”

  All I could hear was static coming out of the radio. And anyway, it was a little late in the season for a baseball game. I had to wonder what he thought he heard.

  But I wasn’t going to hang around. I had to walk on by as though I hadn’t heard or seen a thing.

  And what did he see? I’m medium—medium tall, medium café au lait with my mixed Hawaiian and haole heritage, medium pretty. Nothing to write home about. Just plain old medium. I do have green eyes. Most people seem to find them more than medium. But for the rest--as far as this ghost was concerned, he would think I was just a normal, non-ghost seeing human. And that was the way I wanted it.

  I headed up a stairway and reached the second floor, then sank down to sit on the top step and catch my breath. I had to make a plan. I wanted to get out of there and never come back. Quick—what was the condition of the place? Dusty, neglected, a real mess, but not decrepit. It could probably be worked with and come out shining like a new penny.

  But what would the ghosts do?

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. The ghosts were not my concern. I got back to my feet and headed resolutely toward the first bedroom. It was getting late and I didn’t want to still be exploring the old place when the sunlight was gone.

  The room was in surprisingly good shape and even had a nice quilt on the bed, as though someone might have been living there recently. That gave me a jolt. Could it be that I had more than ghosts to deal with here? I went on to the next bedroom, but it was a wreck. Bookcases had been torn down and the only furniture was a bare box springs with an eerie look. A large trash bin stood in the middle of the room, full of the discarded rags and other items that had once been part of long-gone lives. Someone had obviously begun the demolition work.

  I poked around in the bin a bit gingerly, pushing aside an old blanket and some window curtains. The bottom was littered with old pencils and notebooks. And on top of it all was a small white glass box with an elegant enamel rose crafted on the lid. Something about it called to me, trying to reach for some old memory my mind didn’t want resurrected, it seemed. But I took the box and held it up to the light streaming in from outside. For some reason, it was love at first sight. I drew in my breath and stared at it.

  What was it about this box that drew me in so strongly? I didn’t know, but I couldn’t put it down. As I stared at it, loving it, I heard something. I listened more carefully. I wasn’t sure, but it might be someone crying. Or was it the sound of a lawn mower being run across the grass of a neighborhood house?

  A dog barked, a child screamed, a door slammed shut, and suddenly my heart was racing again. I slipped the enamel box into my pocket and followed the new sounds. They all seemed to be coming from outside. I felt a cold sense of movement and looked up. One of the wispy ghosts was beckoning for me to follow up a spiral stairway high up into the turret.

  I had to pretend not to see her, but I wasn’t about to go up there anyway. Instead, I ducked into another bedroom on the second floor level and went to the door that opened onto a small balcony. Just as I opened the door and stepped out, a cold breeze hit me from behind, and I fell against the wrought iron railing harder than I meant to. But I wasn’t paying attention to that. I was looking down into the yard, trying to find the child, or at least, the dog.

  But that wind should have been a warning. When the railing began to crumble at my weight and I began to fall, I wasn’t even very surprised. I grasped at the shards of the railing that were left but they fell apart in my hands and I was out into empty air.

  You know how you have those dreams where you can fly? It seems so easy. You just begin to sail through the air and you go, “Oh, sure, that’s how you do it,” and you swear you’ll remember when you wake up and you’ll be flying all over. No problem!

  Well, guess what. It’s a lie. I tried with all my might and all my heart and it didn’t work. I fell right down on the roof of a lean-to sort of structure below, screaming like a banshee all the way down.

  Luckily, it was covered with a thick pad of leaves from years of leaf fall. Unluckily, it was set on a slant, and before I could get my balance, I was sliding off, along with a cloud of leaves, and heading for solid ground, and, of course, screaming again.

  Okay, there was one more lucky thing--a very large camellia bush that broke my fall. It saved me from possible damage—even death, I suppose, but it inflicted all sorts of pain in the form of bruises and scratches. Mixed feelings there.

  Someone came running into the yard as I tried to disentangle myself from the bush—no doubt my screams bearing fruit. I looked up at the broken balcony and I was pretty sure I saw the filmy trail of a ghost disappearing into the bedroom. I glared before I could stop myself. I had to remember that I couldn’t see any visitors from the spiritual world at all--even though I was pretty sure one of them had just pushed me.

  The worst thing that could happen—besides me cracking my head open when I fell—would be to let the ghosts know I was on to them. That way led to madness.

  Chapter Two

  “Oh my goodness! Are you alright?”

  A middle-aged lady in zebra-striped leggings was bearing down on me. I tried to pick myself up enough to be presentable. I looked at her again and realized I knew her.

  “Celinda Moore?” I said, remembering her from an art show I’d attended a couple of months ago at the seaside mansion of one Carlton Hart.

  She stared at me. “I remember you,” she said, pointing at me as though she was showing someone. “You’re that young woman who solved the murder at the art show, aren’t you? I’m sorry but your name escapes me.”

  “Mele Keahi,” I said, grimacing as I tried to pull myself together. I was shaking all over, but I didn’t think I was actually hurt.

  “Of course! How are you, dear?” She reached out to help me out of the camellia bush. “You certainly took a tumble. You fell right out of the house, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well, you’re lucky you didn’t break anything. You didn’t, did you?” She looked at me anxiously, and I smiled a bit tremulously and shook my head.

  “I’m okay. Just wounded by twigs.” I brushed a few away. “Darn them anyway.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, you’re bleeding all over! This won’t do. You come on over to my house and we’ll patch you up.”

  Under normal circumstances, I probably would have refused and marched on steadfastly to my own resources. But I have to admit, this wasn’t normal. I was pretty shaken up. I could have been killed by that fall I took. The more I realized that, the more disturbed I felt. I
t wasn’t a matter to shrug off.

  Those ghosts had tried to kill me.

  That gave me chills and made me feel vulnerable, so I let Celinda lead me over to her house, which happened to be right next door.

  The place was a dark, brooding Craftsman style, quite a contrast to the brightly colored Victorian I’d come to look over.

  “Nice place,” I muttered as Celinda led me into the sunroom on the side, beyond the long porch.

  “Oh yes, it’s a wonderful house,” she told me chattily. “Full of Greene and Greene touches.”

  I raised an eyebrow at that. “Greene and Greene” was an architectural pair of brothers who worked on some of the most famous Craftsman houses in the Pasadena area in the first decade of the twentieth century. I’d never heard that they had come up here to the coast and I had a feeling that whatever Greene and Greene influence her house had was made by copycats.

  “We’ve had it for about six years now,” she was saying. “We moved here in order to keep an eye on the Pennington place, you know. Seeing as how my husband is the rightful heir.”

  “The…what?”

  “The heir. Oh, didn’t you know? My husband, Jerry Moore, is Alexander Pennington’s natural child. Illegitimate, you know, but he still has the right to inherit.” She pulled out a first aid case and flipped it open. “He deserves that property, no matter what the courts are saying now. We’ll go on fighting until he takes his rightful place as owner of the Pennington House. You’ll see.”

  I stared at her. From what I’d heard, things had been settled, a judgment made, and the house had gone to the City Council to dispose of as they deemed proper. If that weren’t true, what was I doing here? But I wasn’t going to argue with her, not while she was dabbing my scratches with peroxide and smearing on the Neosporin.

  “So the Pennington’s didn’t have any other children?” I asked casually. “Nobody else to inherit?”