by Rose Pressey
Announcing an irresistible new cozy mystery
series by beloved author
ROSE PRESSEY,
coming soon from Kensington Publishing Corp.!
THE HAUNTED ARTS AND CRAFT mystery series will feature the sleuthing adventures of Celeste Cabot, an artist who travels the South in her sweet pink and white Shasta trailer with her four-pound white Chihuahua, Vincent van Gogh, as she sells her paintings and solves murders.
Keep reading to enjoy an excerpt from
Murder Can Mess Up
Your Masterpiece
Chapter 1
“I want to return this horrible painting.” The tall, willowy gray-haired woman placed the canvas down on the table in front of me.
Yesterday, when she’d purchased the art piece from me, she’d been impeccably dressed and practically flawless. Today she was a hot mess. Her hair tumbled around her flushed face and dark circles colored under her icy blue eyes. Her white blouse and navy blue trousers were the same she’d worn the day before, but were now in desperate need of an iron, as if she’d slept in the clothing. Who was I to notice such things though? My outfit was worse. I peered down at my paint-stained jeans. Various colors decorated the front of my white T-shirt too.
This was day two of the four-day annual Summer Arts and Craft Fair in my hometown of Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Selling my art was my full-time job now, so having one return would hurt my already too-tight budget.
My art display was set up in vendor spot number forty-one. Behind me was my fabulous pink and white Shasta trailer. The adorable little thing would be my home away from home now. I planned on spending a lot of time in the tiny trailer as I traveled the country, bringing my art to each and every state.
“Is there something wrong with the painting?” I asked.
She placed her hands on her slender hips. “Is there something wrong?” Now she was mocking me. “Yes, you could say that something is wrong.”
My four-pound white Chihuahua, Vincent van Gogh, yipped at the woman as he wiggled in my arms. He acted as if he wanted down so he could chase her away. In reality he would run and hide in the trailer. I called him Van for short. She glared at him. He wouldn’t bite her unless she tried to pet him. Or if she turned her back and I let him down. Van had been protective of me since the day I’d rescued him from the animal shelter. One of his giant ears flopped down and that was how he’d gotten the name van Gogh.
Claiming that she had changed her mind wouldn’t be a good enough reason for a return, in my opinion, but what else could be the problem? If she didn’t want it I would have to give her the money back.
“What seems to be the problem?” I used the sweetest tone possible.
I’d never forget the evening I painted the aforementioned piece of art. Rain had battered against the windows of my tiny cottage, almost in rhythm with each stroke of my brush. Thunder rattled the walls and the lightning had caused the lights to flicker on and off. The dense trees surrounding my place acted almost as a comforting earthy embrace. While at home I always felt safe from the overwhelming and hectic world.
Oil paint was my preferred medium that brought the portrait to life. The subject of my work had popped into my mind as clear as any living person. It was as if she was pleading with me to immortalize her on the canvas. I had no idea who she was, but I knew her beauty had to be captured. She wore an ornately trimmed red and gold Victorian-era gown with her dark hair pulled up into a French twist. That was exactly how I depicted her in the portrait.
“The painting is haunted,” the woman said without batting an eyelash.
I glanced around to see if anyone else was in on this joke. Fairgoers milled around the grounds with other artists selling their wares. No one was paying attention to me or my disgruntled customer.
“Did Evan put you up to this?” I asked around a laugh.
The lines between her stone-cold eyes deepened. “I don’t know Evan. Frankly, I’m insulted that you would accuse me of anything that devious.”
Uh-oh. Now I was riling her up even more. Apparently she was completely serious. She was a few strokes short of a finished portrait.
“Why do you think the painting is haunted?” Curiosity forced me to ask this question.
“Right after I took it home, strange things started happening. Things that had never happened before, so I knew it had to be this painting causing the chaos.” She gestured toward the canvas.
I frowned. “What type of strange things?”
She tossed her hands up in frustration. “Doors slamming, unexplained footsteps, and the painting was knocked off the wall and landed on the floor all the way across the room.”
That sounded like something out of a scary movie. Still, I had my doubts that this woman was telling the truth. I didn’t believe in ghosts.
Grabbing my bag, I pulled out the cash that she had given me less than twenty-four hours ago. “Here you are. One hundred dollars.”
It pained me to let go of the money. I had big plans for those bills—like buying food.
She counted the twenties to make sure I hadn’t stiffed her. What kind of operation did she think I was running? After all, she was the one who thought the painting was haunted. What a crazy idea. I pushed my shoulders back and held my head high. It would be all right. Another buyer would come along who appreciated my work.
I wanted to ask her more about this “haunting,” but then I thought better of it. Clearly, she was just making this up in order to return the painting. Plus, even if I changed my mind and decided to ask, it wasn’t an option now. She turned and hurried away before another word was exchanged. At least that tête-à-tête was over, and now I could go back to work.
After placing the painting back on the easel next to the other canvases, I picked up my brush to add a little more detail to my current project. While I waited for other customers to come by I painted. I’d done fairly well at this show so far, selling four paintings in just one day. The rest of the weekend was ahead of me, and with any luck I’d sell even more. My fingers were crossed that I wouldn’t receive another return.
This time I was working on a portrait of a young woman and her horse. The inspiration had come from a woman I’d seen riding at a nearby farm. I thought it would make a lovely painting. Now I was creating it from memory.
For most of my paintings I used oil paint. In my opinion the oil made it easier to get just the right look. My interest in art started at the age of fourteen. It was hard to believe that had been twenty years ago now. The only time I’d had any art training was a class in seventh grade and then again in high school. I’d never made it to college. Things had come up that prevented me from attending—things like no money. I’d taken a job at the local thrift shop and worked there up until two weeks ago. I figured sixteen years was enough and it was time for a change.
“I’m quite impressed by your work.” The female voice snapped my attention away from the colors in front of me.
The dark-haired woman studied the canvas. It was the portrait that the other woman had just returned. A potential new customer? Could I get that lucky? The woman was even shorter than me at probably five feet. Her long straight hair reached past her waist. In some ways she reminded me of my mother. They were probably close to the same age. Everyone said I looked a lot like my mother with dark hair and big brown eyes the shade of a scrumptious piece of Godiva chocolate.
“Thank you,” I said, putting down my brush.
Her comment was just the boost I had needed after the earlier encounter with the unhappy customer.
The woman studied the portrait through her thick black eyeglasses. “Did you add the skull in her dress on purpose?”
I frowned. “I’m sorry. What do you mean?”
She pointed. “On the woman’s dress there’s a skull. It’s an interesting touch. Quite haunting.”
I moved around the table and now stood beside her, staring at the portrait. Still I couldn’t see the skull. Was she just as nutty as the other
customer?
“You don’t see it, do you?” she asked.
“No, I’m sorry.”
She removed her eyeglasses and examined the portrait again. “That’s odd. When I look at it without my glasses it’s not there.”
“Maybe there’s a reflection or smear on your glasses,” I said.
After wiping them with the edge of her shirt she placed them back on her face. “It’s still there.”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say.
She removed the eyeglasses once again. “Here, you put them on and tell me what you see.”
This was the second odd experience that I’d had in less than an hour. My life had always been uneventful. Apparently, I was making up for that now. Nonetheless, I took the frames and put them on as she’d asked. Whoa, I’d get a headache quickly wearing them. Once my eyes adjusted, I peered at the portrait. It was exactly as she’d described.
“Do you see it?” she asked excitedly.
“I see it now. I never painted that. At least not on purpose.”
“Maybe it was just a trick of the strokes,” she said.
“I’m sure no other paintings would have this.”
Keeping her eyeglasses on, I moved to the right a couple steps. Peering at another painting, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Another image was in this painting. This time it was a skeleton, not just a skull. A shiver ran down my spine. I pulled the eyeglasses off.
“What do you see?” the woman asked.
The skeleton wasn’t visible without the eyeglasses. I handed them back to her.
“It’s a skeleton.” My voice was barely above a whisper.
She put on the glasses and studied the painting. “Oh, I see it too. You didn’t do that on purpose? That’s amazing. You have such talent.”
I shook my head no, still in shock. The woman stepped around me to examine the other artwork I had on display. “Oh, there’s a hidden image in all of them.”
I couldn’t wrap my mind around how this had happened. If it had occurred only once I would think it was a fluke, but that couldn’t be the case when it occurred in all of them. Was it just her eyeglasses? Yes, that had to be the case. This was another joke. The woman claiming the painting was haunted was a joke, and now someone was playing another trick on me. I wanted to know who the prankster was.
“Who put you up to this?” I asked.
She furrowed her brow. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but I’m not fooling around. I have the booth two down from you. I make jewelry.”
I glanced down the lane at her table full of jewelry on display.
“I’m sorry, but it has to be your eyeglasses,” I said.
“Do you have anything else glass?” she asked.
“I have ajar that I use to clean my brushes.” I gestured.
“I wonder if you could see the image through that too? Or if it has to be magnified?”
I rushed over and retrieved the jar. Lifting it up to my face, I peered through the glass at the painting. A gasp escaped my mouth when I spotted the skull.
“See? I told you it wasn’t my eyeglasses. You should be happy. This is a true talent and a work of art. Embrace it.” She patted me on the back.
Moving from painting to painting, I examined each one. They all featured some kind of hidden image. I suppose I had to believe it now since I was seeing it with my own eyes. How did this happen? I hadn’t planned it. I suppose I had painted the images with my subconscious.
“My name’s Dorothy Gordon, by the way.” She stretched her hand out toward me.
I shook her hand. “Celeste Cabot. Nice to meet you.”
“Are you okay? I still can’t believe you didn’t know about this.”
“No idea,” I said, still eyeing the painting.
The more I looked at the woman in the portrait, the more I noticed her eyes. They seemed different now somehow, but I couldn’t put my finger on why I thought that. The sound of a motor caught my attention. Evan Wright, the man in charge of setting up the craft fair, was driving a golf cart down the path in front of our booths. At six-foot-three with wide shoulders and a hefty stature, he barely fit behind the wheel of that tiny vehicle.
“Good morning, ladies. Not having any luck with selling your wares, I see.” His loud boisterous laugh carried across the summer air.
Evan didn’t wait around for an answer. He punched the pedal, jerking his head backward. His laughter continued as he drove off.
“I don’t like that guy,” Dorothy said with disdain in her voice.
“He’s not pleasant, is he?” I asked.
“I’ve overheard quite a few vendors talk about how much they don’t like him. As a matter of fact, I might not come back next year if he’s still here.”
“I certainly understand why you feel that way,” I said. “Like my grandma always says, he’s as useful as a pogo stick in quicksand.”
“Oh, it looks as if I have customers. It was nice meeting you, Celeste.” She tossed her hand up in a wave and rushed away to help the customers.
Now I was alone, staring at the woman’s portrait. Or was she staring at me?
Photo by Bill Pressey
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ROSE PRESSEY is a USA Today best-selling author. She enjoys writing quirky and fun novels with a paranormal twist. Her Haunted Vintage mystery series includes If You’ve Got It, Haunt It; All Dressed Up and No Place to Haunt; Haunt Couture and Ghosts Galore; Haunted Is Always in Fashion; If the Haunting Fits, Wear It; and A Passion for Haunted Fashion. When she’s not writing about ghosts and other supernatural creatures, she loves eating cupcakes with sprinkles, reading, spending time with family, and listening to oldies from the fifties. Rose lives near Louisville, Kentucky, with her husband and son and three sassy Chihuahuas. Visit her on Facebook at www.rosepressey.com, or at www.itsvintageyall.blogspot.com.
