The Ghost Detective Books 1-3 Special Boxed Edition: Three Fun Cozy Mysteries With Bonus Holiday Story (The Ghost Detective Collection)

by Jane Hinchey

  Opening the door, I was immediately greeted by a cacophony of noise and Thor.

  “I’m starving!” he declared. Scooping him up into my arms, I gave him a quick cuddle while checking his food and water bowl in the utility room off the kitchen. We’d had to keep his supplies out of the way of curious little fingers, with Isabelle, Madeline, and Nathaniel on the loose. Especially when Dustin caught Nathaniel helping himself to Thor’s kibble.

  “At least he’ll have a shiny coat,” I’d joked. Amanda had not been amused, wondering why I’d insisted on bringing that animal.

  “Oh man,” I sighed, lowering Thor to the floor. Both his kibble bowl and his water bowl had been tipped upside down, and now there was a slushy mess on the floor. In the middle of the mess sat Nathaniel. Amanda would not be amused—it seems the kid has developed a taste for cat food.

  Hoisting Nathaniel out of the mess, I carried him through the kitchen to the adults sitting around the dining table.

  “Anyone lose a kid?” I asked, holding Nathaniel aloft. His pants were soaked.

  Dustin shot to his feet. “Should have known it was too quiet. I thought he was playing with the others.” In front of the fire sat Madeline and Isabelle, playing with a tea set.

  Amanda rose and reached me before Dustin, taking Nathaniel off my hands. “What is it with you and that cat, hmmm?” she asked, kissing the tip of his nose. He rested his face against hers and wrapped his chubby fingers in her hair.

  “Ahem,” Thor reminded me he was in great peril by winding around my ankles.

  “Don’t trip me, buddy,” I warned, “otherwise you might never get fed.”

  “Blimey,” his big orange eyes got even wider, “that would be a calamity.”

  “Indeed.” I knew my family was watching me talking to my cat, and I didn’t care. At least Thor was talking back. They didn’t realize that we could understand each other—to them, it merely looked like a cat meowing at his human.

  “Right, let’s clean up this mess and get you some fresh food, huh? And we need to devise a way to keep the small humans out of the utility room. Wouldn’t want any of them digging around in the litter tray!” I shot a warning glance at Dustin and Brad. A warning glance that said they’d better keep their kids under control, it wasn’t fair that Thor got the blame.

  “I can get a child security gate to put across the doorway,” Brad offered. “Thor should be able to jump over it, but it would keep the kids out.”

  “Great idea. We got one for the Christmas tree to keep the rascals from getting into the presents. Hopefully, they still have stock left in Willow Lake,” Dustin said. “We should head out and check before Amanda has a meltdown.”

  While I was cleaning up the mess in the utility room, I heard Dustin and Brad leave and prayed they’d be able to find a gate. Amanda had already suggested I lock Thor in the utility room, and I’d been offended at the suggestion. As had Thor. Thankfully he’d been on my lap at the time, and I’d been able to stop him from doing anything drastic. He had raised his head and pinned her with a glare, one ear twitching. She’d remarked how uncanny it was as if he could understand what she’d said. If only she knew.

  With Thor sorted, I finally joined Mom, Dad, and Laura at the dining table. Amanda was still changing Nathaniel, and the two girls were still happily playing their tea party game in front of the fire. The Christmas tree sat in the corner, presents piled high beneath it, protected by a baby proof fence.

  “How did everyone go today?” I asked, putting a hand on my rumbling belly. All I’d eaten so far today was a Christmas cookie from the bakery. No wonder my tummy was screaming for food. Getting back up, I rounded the kitchen bench and rummaged in the fridge for the makings of a sandwich.

  “I learned something interesting,” Laura said, hands wrapped around her mug of what I assumed to be hot chocolate. Laura was pregnant with baby number two, so she was off caffeine, and sadly, alcohol.

  “Yeah?” I glanced up from slathering a piece of bread with butter. “What’s that?”

  “That pot is good for morning sickness.”

  I paused the knife mid-stroke and eyeballed her. “Tell me you did not buy any pot today.” I pointed the knife at her. “Do I have to remind you we have a cop staying under this roof?”

  She grinned. “No, I didn’t buy any, tempting though it was.”

  “Morning sickness still an issue, huh?”

  “Actually, it’s not too bad. But I definitely would not take marijuana to alleviate it. But we got to talking with Elspeth Copeland, and she said she could get her hands on a pot cookie.”

  Why didn’t it surprise me that eccentric, hippie clothes-wearing, dreadlocked, seventy-year-old Elspeth Copeland knew where to lay her hands on pot. I resumed my sandwich-making activities. “Did she say where or who had the pot cookies?”

  “I think it was her. She opened her bag and pulled out a zip-lock baggie that had two cookies inside. She didn’t come out and say she’d baked them herself, but let’s just say there had to be at least a dozen baggies in her bag.”

  I shook my head. Elspeth Copeland dealing pot. “I wonder where she’s growing it? Must have a greenhouse somewhere.”

  “Could be growing it in her back room,” Mom piped up. “You don’t need much. Some light and water, and you’re good to go.”

  Laura and I eyeballed our Mom. “Just what do you know about growing marijuana?” Laura asked.

  “What?” Mom protested. “I like to garden. And the marijuana plant isn’t that difficult to grow.”

  “Oh my God, Mom! Tell me you haven’t grown one. Actually scrap that, I don’t want to know.” Slapping together the rest of my sandwich, I took a hearty bite, watching my mom over the island bench. I had a sneaky suspicion she had indeed grown a pot plant. I shook my head and concentrated on chewing before I choked in shock.

  “How about you two? Mom and Dad? Discover anything today?” I asked in between mouthfuls.

  “Your dad had a theory, didn’t you, Honey?” Mom said, looking at my father.

  “What’s your theory, Dad?” I dutifully asked.

  He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Well, you were talking this morning that the killer had to be a good shot, right? To not only shoot across the ice but to hit their target so… precisely.” Yeah, Henry had been shot right in the heart. That took skill. “So, I figured we’d go to the museum.”

  “The museum?” Why on earth would they go to the museum? To even call Willow Lake’s museum an actual museum was a stretch. It was a room, with a hodgepodge of dubious antiques gathering dust.

  “I remembered they had some war pictures on the wall, and I wondered if maybe our shooter was a veteran,” Dad explained.

  “You think our shooter was army trained?” Not a bad idea, as far as ideas go. Dad lifted a shoulder. “No idea. But like Galloway said this morning, let’s throw spaghetti at the wall and see what sticks.”

  “So did you find anyone? Still living and army trained?”

  “Yeah, but it was a bum lead.” He fiddled with his cup. “Some old broad. I tell ya, I was surprised to see her holding a gun.”

  “That’s because you still don’t think women should have an active role in the army!” Mom cut in. “You think they should be kept safe, be nurses, or air traffic controllers, anything to keep them out of combat.”

  “That’s pretty sexist, Dad,” Laura wagged a finger at him. “Women can and do fight alongside men these days.”

  “I know that,” Dad protested. “I was just saying I was surprised because back then, in the Vietnam War, it wasn’t… common.”

  Something niggled in the back of my mind. The Vietnam War. Who was it that had served in Nam and now lived in Willow Lake?

  “Anyway, curious that you said Elspeth Copeland tried to sell you pot today because it’s her friend, Blanche Donnelly, whose photo is on the wall in the museum.”

  I blinked. “Holding a gun? A rifle?”

  “Not just holding. She was
firing it. And in uniform. It’s a candid black and white photo taken from the war.”

  Mom nodded, backing him up. “There was a little write up about her too, that said she deployed as a nurse, but disguised herself as a man, assuming the identity of a deceased soldier, and volunteered for combat. She’d learned to shoot as a child, and with her skill, she was soon transferred to the Sniper Platoon, stationed at Hill 55, South of Da Nang.”

  “And no one knew she was a woman?” Laura was aghast.

  “I’d say at some point she would have been found out, but by then, she’d earned a reputation for herself as an excellent shooter.” Meaning they kept up the charade. All’s fair in love and war.

  I took another bite of my sandwich, lost in thought. What a fantastic story. Going to war as a nurse and then pretending to be a man so you could join the front lines. Ballsy. Brave. Obviously, she must have been found out for the story to be on the museum's wall, although maybe Blanche had outed herself at the end of the war? I couldn’t imagine the lengths she must have gone too to hide her femininity.

  “She can’t be our shooter, though,” Dad said. “Too old. I doubt she’d have the vision or steadiness of hand to be able to take that shot.”

  “True,” I said, mouth full. “But maybe she knows who could take that shot. Maybe she keeps her finger on the pulse in the shooting world? Is there a shooting world? Are there clubs? There must be, for there are shooting ranges.” I was thinking out loud.

  “We went to see her,” Dad said.

  I nearly choked on my sandwich. “You what?” Madly chewing and blinking rapidly because I’d swallowed a chunk without chewing, and I could feel it as it scratched its way down my esophagus.

  “We went to see her,” Dad repeated. “You okay there? Need a whack on the back?”

  I swallowed the rest of my sandwich then proceeded to go into a coughing fit. Grabbing a glass, I shoved it under the faucet, then skulled the contents. Placing the glass on the sink, I turned and eyeballed Dad, then Mom.

  “Tell me you did not go and confront Blanche Donnelly? Tell me you did not accuse her of murder!”

  “Of course we didn’t!” Mom protested.

  “Only because she wasn’t home,” Dad added.

  “What did I tell you this morning?” It was a rhetorical question. “I distinctly said if you come across anyone suspicious, not to approach. Not to engage. To ring Galloway or me. Guys, this person is dangerous.”

  Dad crossed his arms over his chest, and I recognized his belligerence a mile away. “Yes, we heard you. But Blanche Donnelly is not the killer. Like I said, no way she could make that shot.”

  “Dad, you don’t know that!” I mean, he was right. It was highly doubtful an old woman had fired the shot that killed Henry, but that wasn’t the point. The point was keeping them safe.

  “Where’s Kade, anyway?” Mom asked, distracting me from the telling off I was in the process of delivering.

  “He’s helping the Sheriff.” And I really hoped they found something incriminating on Bobby Vaughn’s CCTV. I didn’t think I could stand the stress of my family assisting me for much longer.

  9

  Baby Isabelle is not a fan of Santa. She screamed blue murder when placed upon jolly Saint Nick's lap. To his credit, Ken kept his cool, balanced her on one knee, and pointed at the camera sitting on top of a tripod in front of them. The elf operating the camera took the photo, and Isabelle was scooped up and handed back to Laura.

  “That one’s a keeper for sure,” I grinned to Laura, who rolled her eyes at her screaming toddler. I gave Ken a wave and watched while Madeline and Nathaniel had their turn with Santa. Both of them beamed with delight, while Isabelle was still distraught over her encounter with the bearded man, her sobs shaking her little body as big fat tears ran down her face.

  “Awww, baby,” I cooed, holding out my hands to see if she wanted to come to her favorite Aunt. She didn’t. She tucked her face into Laura’s neck and clung on.

  “She’s tired,” Laura explained. “She only had half a nap today. I predict she’ll be out within ten minutes of us sitting down.”

  Galloway appeared at my elbow, handing me a cup of eggnog.

  “Thanks,” I smiled and slid my hand into his. It turns out Bobby Vaughn was full of it. His so-called CCTV were actually fake cameras, so the whole thing had been a bust. Galloway had spent hours with the Sheriff going over the crime scene reports and waiting for the preliminary autopsy results. But it was Christmas Eve, and this was Willow Lake. Nothing moved fast. He’d returned to the lake house weary and frustrated at the lack of progress until I’d filled him in on what I’d learned, then he’d perked up considerably.

  For one, Charlie Vaughn was not our shooter, not with a broken arm. And secondly, I suspected Ken had been the target. Not Henry. A case of mistaken identity—Ken had been wearing Henry’s jacket in the woods the day before. And I suspect he’d captured something—more likely someone, on his camera that he hadn’t meant to see. Only Ken was clueless. He’d taken hundreds of photos; he hadn’t even looked at them. But the killer didn’t know that. Whatever Ken had caught them doing, it was bad enough to kill for. That would explain why Henry’s cabin had been ransacked. The killer was searching for the camera.

  And if they had put two and two together and realized that it was Ken who was the photographer, not Henry, then Ken’s life could be in danger. I’d hustled the family to the Christmas concert early, wanting to check in on Ken and make sure he was okay. That he was safe.

  Since Ken couldn’t be in front of the camera and behind the camera at the same time, he’d set everything up and enlisted an elf to simply click the shutter button, minimal technical knowledge required. It was bittersweet to see Henry by his side. In every photo, Henry stood by Ken’s side, beaming at the camera, his hand resting on Ken’s shoulder, but nobody, other than me, could see him.

  Of Ben, there was no sign, and that was concerning, for I’d left him searching through Ken’s camera for… well, we weren’t entirely sure what we were looking for, just that whatever it was, it had to be incriminating. But both the camera, and Ken, were here. So where was Ben?

  The hall was starting to fill up. Laura snagged us seats at the back near the Santa photo booth so we could keep an eye on Ken. I was stuffing my face with a gingerbread man, decorated as Santa, of course, and washing it down with eggnog when Laura nudged me with her elbow.

  “Is that?”

  I followed her line of sight to see a short, round elf with long gray dreadlocks hustling toward the photo booth. Chewing the gingerbread—was it meant to be this chewy? Like, seriously, I was getting a jaw ache from it. Did it have molasses in it? What went into gingerbread anyway? I made a mental note to ask Mom.

  “Audrey!” Laura nudged me again, and I spilled my eggnog down my sweater. I glared at her. “What did you do that for?”

  “Is that Elspeth Copeland? Dressed as an elf?” she repeated, her eyes tracking the elderly woman as she waddled at a clipping pace across the floor.

  I nodded. Only one retiree with dreadlocks that I knew of in Willow Lake and that was Elspeth Copeland. “Yep, that’s her.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  Elspeth had a Santa hat clutched in her hands and was pulling out packages from it, handing them out to people as she passed. I shrugged. “Giving out gifts?”

  Laura looked at me, horrified. “What if she’s giving out pot cookies?”

  I laughed. “As if!” But I looked a little more closely at the small packages Elspeth was handing out. I could see diddly squat from my vantage point, but I kept my eye on Elspeth as she inched closer and closer to the booth where Ken was still playing Santa.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed from the speakers, and I jumped in my seat, startled. “Sorry, sorry, that was a little loud.” Turning my attention to the stage, I saw Lucie Gardner behind the microphone stand positioned in front of the stage curtains. She motioned to someone off stage, and the speaker
s squawked and squeaked as the volume was adjusted.

  “That better?” Lucie asked. The audience responded with shouts of yes, much better, thank you. I chewed my gingerbread, ignored the eggnog seeping through my sweater, and watched the stage. Lucie was a classic beauty. Her hair, once dark, was now a dozen shades of silver and gray, cut in a chic pixie cut that suited her delicate features. I’d always liked Lucie, I had wanted to be her when I grew up. She reminded me of Princess Grace, all regal and beautiful. Now in her fifties, she still held that same allure that had captured me as a child… I hung on her every word.

  “Just a reminder that there are several bins around the hall for your donations to the hat and mitten drive,” she smiled at the audience. I leaned forward, glancing past Laura and Brad to Mom. Had she brought the hats and mittens we were donating? We’d brought a bagful with us from Firefly Bay.

  Mom caught me looking and gave me a thumbs up, so I relaxed back against my seat. Galloway wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and I leaned into him, shoving more gingerbread into my mouth.

  “Okay, without further ado, please join me in welcoming the Willow Lake Brass Band to the stage! They’ll be playing Deck the Halls for us tonight.”

  The audience clapped as the curtains swung back to reveal the band. Three trumpet players, one French horn, one trombone, and one tuba. Then began the longest three minutes of my life. The sounds from the stage were mind-numbingly bad, yet the audience sat with rapt attention, almost as if hypnotized.

  “You’ve got drool,” Galloway whispered in my ear. What? I turned my head to look at him, mouth open, gingerbread halfway to my mouth like it had been since the band had started. I blinked. Galloway grinned and wiped his thumb under my bottom lip. “How much sugar is in those?” He nodded toward the gingerbread, and I clasped it tighter.