Midnight Mysteries: Nine Cozy Tales by Nine Bestselling Authors

by Ritter Ames

  MIDNIGHT MYSTERIES:

  Nine Cozy Tales by Nine Bestselling Mystery Authors

  All works in this anthology are copyrighted by the respective authors.

  All rights reserved

  No part of this anthology may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author or publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the authors imaginations or are used fictitiously. The authors acknowledge trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  LynDee Walker – Frightening Features – A Nichelle Clarke Mystery #5.5

  Eleanor Cawood Jones – Salad Days, Halloween Nights

  Connie Shelton – Spellbound Sweets – A Samantha Sweet Magical Cozy Mystery

  Maria Grazia Swan – Weeping Moon – A Lella York Mysteries series story

  Karen Cantwell – It Takes a Ghost – A story tie-in with the Sophia Rhodes series

  Larissa Reinhart – The Vigilante Vignette – A Cherry Tucker Mystery #5.5

  Morgana Best – No Time to Witch – prequel story to the Miss Spelled mystery

  Ritter Ames – Organized for Masked Motives – An Organized Mystery

  Carolyn Haines – Clacking Bones – A Sarah Booth Delaney Halloween Tale

  Nichelle Clarke is not a patient recovery patient. While she’s waiting for an injury to heal, all she really wants is a story to write and research—hard news to get her mind occupied, even if she can only work one-armed. Instead, her boss gives her a fluff piece. Not her idea of fun. But with Nichelle snooping around, it’s not surprising her soft story takes a decidedly hard turn.

  FRIGHTENING FEATURES

  A Nichelle Clarke Mystery #5.5

  By LynDee Walker

  ONE

  THERE WASN’T SUPPOSED to be a dead body in this story. Well—not a fresh one, anyway.

  Offering me a cutesy feature on a ghost hunting TV show for the Halloween day front page was my editor’s latest attempt to keep me at home until my surgically repaired broken arm had healed. Bob thought he was clever, knowing how much I love my “Nichelle Clarke: cops and courts SuperReporter” reputation. I live and breathe hard news to the tune of more than a few battle scars from digging too far into sticky stories. Journalism that makes a difference: That’s what keeps me working eighty-hour weeks while I feed my designer heel habit on eBay.

  I love every minute of it.

  Bob worries. Hence, the labored sigh and offer of a boogey-boo fluff piece I’d gotten yesterday on the phone.

  But given a choice between a holiday feature and another day on my couch eating Oreos and watching Anderson Cooper, I called his bluff and jumped at “Reality Supernatural.” Annoyed him so much he sent reinforcements.

  “I hear you have an assignment out in Augusta County tomorrow, and Grant has a friend who’s offered us his vineyard for the wedding,” my newly engaged city hall reporter friend Melanie said when she called me a minute and a half after I hung up with Bob. “I need my maid of honor for the big decisions, and the place is right nearby. Grant can drive us and everything.”

  More transparent than the ghosts I was supposed to be writing about.

  But my very own real-life Adventures of Scooby Doo episode was better than one more second at home. Even my dog was tired of my whining.

  So there I was, leading Mel and her star sports columnist fiancée through the woods hunting for 1650s Europe on a sunny Saturday morning in late October.

  “It has to be up here,” I grouched, the encroaching trees on both sides of us lending a tinge of doubt to my tone.

  “It doesn’t look like there’s ever been anything up here,” Parker called from behind me. “We took three roads the GPS people don’t know about to get this far. I’m losing faith in your sense of direction, Clarke.”

  “I’ve never had much faith in my sense of direction.” I turned to face them with a grin. “My note-taking superpowers, however, have stood up in court. The producer said we’d find a clearing past the trees.”

  “What if we can’t find it because it’s really haunted?” Mel dropped her voice two octaves, waggling her eyebrows. “Beware all who enter here, and so on. Perhaps we should just head on out to the vineyard before it’s too late?”

  “After the year I’ve had dealing with flesh and blood bad guys, I believe I could take Casper,” I said, watching a fugitive from the arching branches of brilliant reds, yellows, and oranges drift past us to settle on the dirt. Another week, and we’d be walking over an autumn rainbow. “I might even prefer him.”

  I forged on.

  “Nichelle, wait up,” Parker called. “Bob will kill me if I let you go off alone.”

  I’d googled the place the night before, and while it wasn’t a typical Nichelle assignment, the location itself sounded pretty cool: A whole little medieval village just left to rot in the Virginia countryside. Tax records said it was owned by a bank in California, and had been since they’d foreclosed on it a dozen years ago. I couldn’t get anyone at the bank on the phone before close of business yesterday, but I’d bet it never sold because we were at least five exits past the middle of nowhere. Plus, anyone who wouldn’t be buying it purely for the land had to be a pretty dadgum narrow market.

  Spying literal light at the end of the tree tunnel, I quickened my steps. A few yards later we filed between two golden poplars, and bam—1650s Europe.

  “Hello, time warp,” I breathed, my eyes skipping from one thatched-roof stucco building to another. Weathered wooden signs advertised a blacksmith, a fortune teller, and a pub in the buildings closest to us. Stick piles that were likely once market booths littered the street every twenty feet or so, and the smell of musty wood lay heavy on the air.

  “Holy crow,” Mel let out a low whistle. “Bob wasn’t kidding.”

  “This place is creeptastic,” Parker said. “But in a really cool way.”

  I nodded, the hair on my arms popping to attention. Drying leaves whispered behind us as a chilly breeze hit our backs. I shivered, shoving my hands in my pockets and striding for the buildings.

  A chill of a whole different kind followed when a scream split the still air in the little clearing. We froze for half a second before Parker and I broke into a run for the blacksmith’s door, leaving Mel hollering behind us about scary movies and being stupid.

  TWO

  BY THE TIME Parker’s hand closed around the rusted iron cross handle on the planked door, my shoulder was screaming right along with whoever was inside.

  I stopped short, raising one hand. “We might be walking onto their set,” I said between gulps of air. Two weeks off from the gym wouldn’t matter if I hadn’t spent so much of them cozied up to a bag of Oreos.

  “I haven’t even seen another person, let alone TV equipment,” Parker hissed, easing the door open a crack.

  “I’m just saying—” I began, when a low growl came through the door, followed by a string of swearwords that even had Parker lifting a brow. And he used to play baseball for a living.

  “Stil
l want to wait out here?” he muttered from the corner of his mouth.

  I shook my head. Curiosity goes with the job, and screaming like the building’s on fire followed by swearing an indigo streak had to equal something interesting. Hopefully interesting enough to lead my story with.

  He pulled the door slowly, the hinges creaking like Dracula’s coffin.

  I poked my head in, grabbing the splintery wood for support when I spotted the dust-ridden anvil near the stove—or more specifically, the head perched atop it. Glassy eyes half-hidden behind matted dark hair stared out of a bloody, swollen face.

  “Another falls victim to the curse of Four Winds Faire,” a solemn bass intoned.

  I would’ve screamed, but that requires the ability to breathe.

  “I thought Bob said this was supposed to be a feature.” Parker’s face was an alarming shade of gray, his knuckles going white around the door handle. “What is it with you and dead people?”

  Before I could come up with an answer that didn’t depress me, laughter rang off the rafters, “Gotcha!” booming between the peals.

  “Drew, you daft bastard.” The words carried clearly on a rough British accent. A pale hand connected to a bloody stump sailed through the air, thwacking into the wall and landing on the dirt floor after just missing a shiny bald head. Drew’s, I supposed.

  He laughed, plucking the head from the anvil. “Looks just like her, doesn’t it? Took you long enough to get in here. I was afraid Jess would find it herself and spoil the fun.”

  Parker’s breath sucked in sharply next to me, and I closed my eyes and leaned against the doorframe.

  “Looks like the special effects guy was having some fun.”

  “Special effects? I thought this was a reality show crew,” Parker stage whispered.

  “Right. Because no reality TV show uses scripts or special effects,” I said.

  He rolled his eyes, shaking his tousled blond head at the crew. “Way to destroy my illusions, guys.”

  I snorted and poked his ribs with my elbow. “I’m glad Mel thinks it’s cute that you’re so naive.”

  “Who’s naive?” Melanie asked, creeping up behind us.

  I pointed to Parker and shoved off the doorframe when the bald guy spotted us and started my way.

  Meeting him between the door and the anvil, I stuck out one hand. “Nichelle Clarke from the Richmond Telegraph. I’m supposed to speak with Jessica Fanelli this morning for a holiday piece about the show.”

  He closed his meaty paw around my fingers. “Drew Bretton.” My ears pricked to annoyance behind his fabulous accent. “Jess hasn’t shown up yet, which is more of a problem for me than for you, I promise. You’re welcome to wait if you like.”

  I twisted my lips to one side. “Is there anyone else who might be able to show us around? I just need to get a feel for why you’re here and what you’re doing, and then we’ll be out of your hair… um… way.”

  He flashed a smile, stepping aside. “I don’t suppose I have anything better to do right now. Come on, then.”

  We stepped over the high threshold onto a hay-covered dirt floor. A woman with white-blond hair sporting a shock of magenta in the front that she was definitely cool enough to pull off slammed out of the room with a withering glare at Drew and not so much as a once-over for the rest of us. “I’d say you have to forgive Amy, but I’m tired of apologizing for her,” Drew said. “She’s our assistant producer. Maybe she can get Jess on the phone while you wait.”

  “So, this episode is about the curse of the Four Winds Faire, right?”

  “Indeed. Fascinating story, that. You know the grounds were only open for two seasons before they closed them permanently?”

  Melanie squeaked. “Why?”

  “Five mysterious deaths in two years’ time, and the last two were customers.” Drew wriggled his eyebrows. “Nobody would come back for the third season, and then the liability lawsuits bankrupted the ownership group. These days, people say the spirits of the faire folks have joined whatever was here to begin with to keep the woods empty.” His voice was solemn and smooth, the accent lilting, but not heavy enough to make him hard to understand. Familiar.

  “You do all the voiceovers for the show, don’t you?” I asked. I’d watched a few episodes online as part of my research.

  He grinned. “I do as much as they’ll let me. Total passion project for me. I love film, and I love bringing people the truth about the how other planes intersect with our reality.”

  Parker cleared his throat. “So, you really think there’s something to this curse thing?”

  Drew nodded. “Jess got some pretty hot readings when she came out to scout the location. Can I say a presence is the reason people died? No. But there’s something here. Maybe several somethings.”

  Melanie squeaked again and scooted closer into Parker’s side.

  “Any reports of unusual activity since the faire closed?” I asked, trying to keep from rolling my eyes.

  The light seeping through the roof shone off the top of Drew’s head when he tipped it to one side. “I think we have a non-believer in the house.”

  I stuck out my lower lip and blew a rogue hair out of my face before I smiled. “I do a fair amount of writing about flesh and blood evil. I don’t think I want to believe there’s bad out there we can’t see on top of the tragedy I write about every day.”

  “Perhaps you’ll change your mind before you leave.”

  “I plan to be long gone before nightfall.”

  “Daylight doesn’t mean no activity.” He winked. “And I thought you were a skeptic.”

  “Skeptic doesn’t equal stupid. I like my bases covered.” I waved the phone toward the pile of electronics behind him. “So. Is your proton pack in there somewhere?”

  “We’re just here to observe.” He grinned. “Though I have to admit, I love a good marshmallow roasting.”

  Parker laughed. “Hey Clarke: just so we’re clear, if someone asks if you’re a god, you say ‘yes.’”

  That got a nervous giggle from Mel, who still looked like she might sprint for the car if it wasn’t for Parker’s grip on her shoulder.

  “Care for a little ghost hunting 101?” Drew asked.

  “All ears, professor.” I checked to make sure the phone was still recording.

  He pointed out special lighting rigs designed to show off the abundance of spider webs in the room’s corners and rafters as I held my spanking-new iPhone up so the voice recorder would catch it all, clicking the camera on and snapping a few photos here and there. Not being able to take notes was irritating, but the sling meant juggling a notebook and pen was off limits unless I wanted serious stitches-pulling pain to ensue.

  “This thermal cam will show an infrared image of temperatures in the buildings, highlighting cold spots,” Drew said, holding up a palm-sized camcorder. “We splice that with the night vision footage of the room to create the final tape.”

  I snapped a photo of the camera, zooming in on the LCD screen when he turned it on and panned the room. Most of the space was orange thanks to lack of a breeze, but Parker and Mel showed up as red people-blobs, and the upper reaches of the room went green and then blue in a gradient.

  “Unexplained cold spots are associated with supernatural activity, right?” I asked.

  Drew nodded. “We have other equipment we rely on to identify a presence, but that’s a good starting point.”

  “What’s the scariest thing that’s ever happened to you on the job?” I asked.

  Drew opened his mouth to reply, but a shriek from outside stopped his words before they hit the air.

  THREE

  THE SCREAMING STOPPED as abruptly as it began. Nervous laughter rang off the rafters, though I couldn’t have sworn which one of us it came from.

  “Probably a spider or something,” Parker cleared his throat, tightening his arm around Melanie. “The place has to be crawling with them.”

  I nodded, turning back to Drew, who was moving towar
d the door when another, higher scream filtered through the walls. He broke into a run. “Amy doesn’t spook easily,” he called over one large shoulder.

  I followed at a non-wound-jarring pace, Parker and Mel electing to stay behind. Three screams later, I reached the swinging doors of the pub, only to find Drew’s large frame blocking the doorway, his face whiter than a freshly bleached sheet.

  My stomach freefell to my knees. What could make a professional ghost hunter involuntarily adopt Casper’s complexion? “What’s up?”

  “Jess. She’s here. Or she was. She’s dead.” The words were hollow, a tone that often comes with shock. I’d interviewed enough witnesses in eight years at the crime desk to recognize it.

  Holy Manolos. I glanced around the abandoned street. Nothing but fallen leaves dancing across the dirt.

  Deep breath. I focused on Drew, who was slowly turning a pale camouflage green, and Amy, sobbing silently into the back of his shoulder. Stepping away in case his nausea got the better of him, I flipped into cops-reporter high gear. A body meant we needed the police. I clicked my phone screen to life.

  No service. “Damn.” I backed into the middle of the street, holding the phone up as my brain ran what-ifs on fast forward. I hadn’t actually met Ms. Fanelli. She hadn’t sounded old on the phone, but step one in handling a crisis is to avoid leaping to conclusions. Thousands of people die every day. Most of them of natural causes.

  When twenty paces and a clear shot at the sky didn’t get me anywhere with the cell service, I pocketed the phone and strode back to Drew, who was slumped against the doorframe and sucking wind like he’d just run a marathon.

  “Deep breaths. Try to focus on something else,” I said, stretching on tiptoe and peering inside. I could give or take actually seeing anything, really. I’d inadvertently glimpsed plenty of dead people, and it never stopped being horrifying.

  Past twenty feet of shadows, dust motes, and cobwebs, I spied a curtain of long dark hair trailing over a pumpkin and pink sweater sleeve.