by Tegan Maher
Or did he?
Miss Beasley had got her revenge, and she’d taken the life of another to do it, but she was dying. Morgana didn’t want to put a dying woman through an interrogation, what would be the point? And Tristan wouldn’t let Gaye Trenton’s granddaughter take the fall, not if she didn’t do it, Morgana was quite sure of that.
She sat and tapped her phone, wracked with indecision.
Somewhere in Wadebridge church bells began to ring out, and the sound mingled with that of an ambulance pulling into the parking area beside her. Morgana didn’t move, just waited for what she suspected was coming, and was unsurprised as they came out wheeling a stretcher. The body of Miss Beasley was obviously devoid of life to Morgana, even as they loaded it inside and sped away at speed to the hospital.
She thought the tires of the ambulance had kicked up dust from the ground until she saw it land on the windshield. It wasn’t dust, it was snow. Flakes settled on the glass, then more until the snow covered everything in sight, and the bells kept ringing, their tune rejoicing in the season.
Peace on Earth once more, thought Morgana, putting away her phone. It’s over and done.
She started the car and pulled away, smiling to herself as she did so. She would call Tristan when she got home, and she was pleased to have discovered the truth even though it wouldn’t make any difference now. Except perhaps to Gaye Trenton’s granddaughter. Besides, Morgana thought, glad that her mind was clear now, she had more than enough other things to concentrate on. Yule was fast approaching. Plus her business, her cat, her family, an upcoming date with the handsome Lord Latheborne. And getting back to Portmage through a snow storm!
Want to read more?
This story is set in Stella’s Cornish Witch Mystery series. You can start with book 1, Murder Most Pumpkin, here.
About Stella
Stella Berry has delusions of being the next Agatha Christie and is terribly British in everything she writes. Especially as she is terribly British in real life. In consequence her novels are set in quintessential English villages and towns, but with a dash of paranormal alongside the traditional and cozy murder mysteries.
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Sugarplum Spooks
Stephanie Damore
Sugar Plum Spooks
By Stephanie Damore
Christmas is supposed to be the most magical time of the year. But if that were true, old Mrs. Meyer's wouldn't be chucking a dead body in the dumpster, and a hellhound wouldn't be haunting the Boy Scout's Christmas tree lot.
All I wanted for Christmas was to bake some cookies and cuddle with my favorite ghost--is that too much to ask?
Good thing my haunted honey doesn't mind taking the case.
What can I say? We make a great team--even if one of us is dead.
1
"Any ghosts hanging out here this morning?" My coworker Ellen asked me as she tied on her apron. Her salt and pepper hair was damp from working hard in the sweltering kitchen even though it was only twenty degrees outside.
"Not since Nick left," I said, referencing my dearly departed husband, who was still very much an active part of my life. I fanned my face while peering into the wall oven at the gingerbread cookies that were almost ready to come out. You had to nab them at the right moment, or the cookies would be too crunchy, no matter how much royal icing you decorated them with.
"Good. I have to tell you something." Ellen lowered her voice and leaned forward so no one would hear her out front, not that they could over the sound of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” playing over the bakery's speakers.
"I think I saw Mrs. Myers haul a dead body out to the dumpster this morning." Ellen stood upright, her eyes wide for emphasis.
"What? Why do you think that?" Ellen held my full attention. The gingerbread men were on their own.
"Well, it was pretty dark out, but she was dragging something wrapped in a black tarp to the dumpster. I saw it plain as day out my apartment window."
"What makes you think it's a dead body?" Seemed like a morbid conclusion to jump to.
"It was bundled up at the top and the bottom like I see they do on those true crime shows. She was having quite a bit of a time dragging it through the snowy parking lot, too. She never would have been able to toss it in if Connor hadn't stopped snowplowing to help."
"Connor O'Reilly?"
"He plows the apartment complex now," Ellen added for clarification.
I nodded, remembering seeing Connor plow the marina's parking lot too, even though the waterfront area was a ghost town this time of year. Very few people braved the icy shoreline in December. Unlike the smaller inland lakes, it would take much colder temps to freeze Lake Michigan, our bay included.
"Connor got out and heaved the bundle into the dumpster without a second thought," Ellen said.
"Don't you think he would've noticed he was tossing a dead body into a dumpster?"
"Have you talked to Connor lately? The man is out of his mind on a good day. He's always driving around talking to himself, randomly yelling and cursing thin air. Something's not right with him."
"Good point." Connor had always been an odd duck, but lately, he seemed worse. "Just this last week he sat out front the bakery eating a Big Mac on a park bench in the snowstorm. When I invited him inside, he flat out ignored me, got up and left."
"See what I mean?"
"Okay, so say Connor's oblivious, whose body could it be?" Mrs. Myers lived alone, and I doubted the little old lady had many enemies. She had a tendency to keep to herself, with Sunday morning service being her only social obligation.
"That's the other thing. Mrs. Myers had a row with Mr. Stanzi last week. Turns out, she caught him peeking in her living room window. Can you imagine? Told you that's why I didn't want a ground floor apartment."
"You think Mrs. Myers killed Mr. Stanzi and disposed of his body in the dumpster? "
"It's one theory."
I nodded, trying to give my brain time to process what Ellen was saying. I looked at my coworker and friend. Worry filled her eyes. And the thing was, it wasn't like Ellen to come up with some crackpot theory. She was usually level-headed. Hanging out with me and my crime-solving ways must be rubbing off on her—and not in a good way.
"Well, what do you think I should do?" she finally asked.
"I think you should call Deputy Sinclair," AKA Autumn Sinclair, my sister.
"I knew you were going to say that." Ellen put her hands on her hips.
"Well, if I thought I saw a dead body, that's what I would do."
"You would not! You said so yourself last time."
"That was different! The victim and I had history."
"And your sister's accused me of murder before!"
"Good point. What about Deputy Preston?” He was a newish deputy and also a fellow medium.
Ellen fidgeted with her cross necklace. "I'm just not comfortable calling the sheriff department right now. Not since that incident. I don’t want to be on their radar.”
I sighed, knowing where this was going and yet still wondering if there was a way to get out of it. "I suppose we can check it out after we shut down this afternoon."
"You'd do that for me?"
"Sure, what are friends for?" If you can't dumpster dive for dead bodies in December, what good are you?
Ellen looked relieved.
"But if there is a dead body, I'm calling Autumn, pronto." I just needed a good enough excuse as to how we found the victim. Candy canes crossed, it wouldn't come to that.
2
The sound of kids trooping in the front of the bakery, their heavy boots stomping on the entrance rugs, ended our conversation and had me scrambling to ta
ke out the gingerbread cookies from the oven. The poor little guys were toast, literally. I clanked the metal pan down on the tile countertop next to the sink and went through the bakery's swinging kitchen door to greet Boy Scout Troop 111.
"Hey boys, how about some hot chocolate to warm you up?" The group of five boys looked chilled right down to the bone—and then some. Their paled complexions and frightened expressions hinted at something darker going on. Scoutmaster George, a middle-aged man with a big red beard and usually lively green eyes, looked much the same. Something sinister was afoot. I could feel it in my bones.
"Is everything okay?" I asked, even though it clearly wasn't. Ellen, who had grabbed the dustpan and broom and was sweeping up chunks of ice that had scattered across the hardwood floor as they entered, looked up to take in the scene.
"G-G-G-Ghost," the one little boy mumbled. His bottom lip trembled.
I glanced behind my shoulder to make sure my husband hadn't suddenly appeared, but I didn't see anything. "Ghost? Where sweetie?"
"At the tree lot. He chased us." I looked at the group. All of the boys nodded their heads. My eyes met George's. "It's true. I never would've believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself," he confirmed.
"Well, there's no ghost here." Not at the moment anyway. "Let's get you guys settled around the table, and I'll bring out mugs of hot cocoa and frosted sugar cookies on the house, okay?" I came around the counter and ushered the boys to the table underneath the air duct, where a steady stream of warm air blew out.
"On it," Ellen said, abandoning the broom and fetching the mugs.
George stayed at the counter.
"So, what happened?" I asked as I put together a tray of cookies from the glass display case.
"We were down at the tree lot, setting things up for our annual sale where out of nowhere, I heard barking."
"Like a dog barking?"
The scoutmaster nodded. "I turned around, expecting to see a stray dog but didn't see anything. Then came the voice. It was like the man was standing right behind me. Told me to get off his property."
"What did you do?"
"Well, I still didn't see anyone. I asked the boys if they heard or saw anything, and they said no. We kept unloading the trailer and setting the trees up. It wasn't five minutes later I heard the voice again. This time he was louder. Said something about coming for us. There was a growl. The wind picked up the snow at about the same time, and suddenly we could all see him." George shivered. "The boys started screaming and took off running. I managed to say something about heading on our way and started the snowmobile. I caught up to the boys and had them hop on the trailer." George shook his head. I could tell he was replaying the scene in his mind. "We headed right here."
"Wow."
"I don't know how I'm going to explain it to their parents or what we're going to do about the lot this year because I tell you what, I'm not going back there again. Not until whatever is there is gone."
"No, I don't blame you."
"Do you think it was real?”
"I think anything is possible," I replied flatly.
George thought for a moment and shook his head as if second-guessing himself. "Listen, do me a favor, don't tell anyone what I said. It was probably just my imagination running wild. The wind rustling through the trees."
"Uh-huh."
"Ghosts aren't real," the scoutmaster tried to convince himself.
I shrugged my shoulders. "Whatever you say." George took the tray of cookies from my hands. "But if you need someone to talk to, I'm always here." I didn't push it. I could tell the man needed time to process his paranormal experience.
"Thanks, Claire."
I looked over to the group of boys who were laughing, blowing bubbles into their hot chocolate, giving themselves whip-cream mustaches. The saying kids are resilient seemed right. Nevertheless, I needed to find out who was haunting the tree lot.
"Ghosts aren't real, huh?" Nick appeared beside me and referenced the scoutmaster's last remark.
"That's okay, I believe in you," I said as I passed through the swinging bakery door and headed into the kitchen. "And you're just the ghost I was looking for."
"I'd be flattered, but I know you too well."
I tried to glare at my hubby, but he was right. "Okay, fine. I need a favor."
"The truth comes out," Nick joked.
"What do you know about the ghost haunting the Boy Scouts' Christmas tree lot?"
"There's a ghost haunting the tree lot?" Nick replied.
"That's what George tells me. The kids are pretty shaken up."
"Wonder if it's someone new?"
"I don't know. I can't think of anyone recently who’s passed that would fit the profile unless they're someone from out of town?" Bleu Clair Bay was a small town. Not much happened without everyone else hearing about it.
"Want me to check it out?"
"Would you? If we can find out what he's doing there, maybe we can get him to leave." I didn't want any more kids getting spooked.
"Look at you, the regular ghost whisperer."
"What can I say? It's a gift." Or curse. Either way, I'd take it if it meant seeing Nick still. My husband's death had almost been the end of me. The fact that his ghost popped up in my shower months after his funeral was a shock, to say the least. Our relationship now was bittersweet—emphasis on the sweet.
"I'll let you know what I find out." Nick brushed a cold kiss on my cheek. A welcome temperature change to the roasting kitchen.
“Okay, thanks, babe. While you do that, I'm going to check a dumpster for a dead body."
Nick's shocked expression was the last thing I saw before he blinked out of existence. I knew he was still in the room by the presence of his orb hovering above the cooling racks, which is why I added, "Don't worry, I'll be careful."
3
"I see it," I said to Ellen, who was giving me a leg up on the dumpster. My upper body balanced over the inside while I searched through the bags of trash looking for Mrs. Myers' mysterious package. Someone had been cleaning house if the dumpster contents were any indication. Boxes of old records, a broken lamp, faded plastic Halloween decorations, and a musty rug were mixed in with everyday garbage.
As soon as I spotted the six-foot-long black tarp with its head and feet bound with duct tape, I knew exactly what Ellen was talking about. The shape of the tarp alone was enough for me to call my sister to investigate. I couldn't believe I'd waited all morning to look into Ellen's claim. Guilted pooled in my belly. What if it was a dead body and I'd left it here all day?
"What are you doing?" The woman's voice came from behind us and startled Ellen enough for her to pitch my foot forward and effectively toss me headfirst into the dumpster.
“Ellen!” I screamed. My hands braced my fall as I tumbled into the pile of trash—including the Christmas tree. The moment I landed on the macabre wrapped package and felt the needles prick me through the plastic, I knew exactly what I was. Still, I scrambled to get out of there.
"Claire, I'm so sorry. Mrs. Myer's gave me a fright." Even in the blustery air, Ellen's face turned a deeper shade of pink at getting busted.
I climbed up the inside of the dumpster, getting my foot up on the ledge to leverage myself out.
"You threw away your old Christmas tree?" I asked Mrs. Myers.
"It's a Christmas tree?" Ellen asked me. Relief heavy in her voice. I nodded in reply.
"Sure did." The old lady looked proud of herself. "I got up early this morning and hauled it out. The new one was supposed to be delivered by noon, but now here it's after four o'clock and still no tree."
"Were the boy scouts supposed to deliver it?" I asked.
"No, Connor O'Reilly offered to bring it by. I knew I shouldn't have said yes. That poor man is going nuttier by the day. He probably forgot all about me."
"Um, Claire?" Nick materialized beside me. It was a good thing I was used to him popping up, or I would've screamed. "We have a situation down at the tree lot.
"
I looked over Nick's shoulder, where another orb was hovering. A second later, Connor O'Reilly's ghost appeared. I gasped--I couldn't help it. I tried to cover my expression with a cough.
"What's wrong?" Ellen asked me.
"Uh, Mrs. Myers, let me check with Connor and see where that tree of yours is." I tugged the arm of Ellen's quilted coat and turned on my heel not waiting for Mrs. Myer’s response. Together we power walked across the snow-packed parking lot, careful not to slip.
"What in the heavens is going on?" Ellen asked me once we were safely inside her apartment.
I unwrapped the scarf from around my neck. "Nick's here, and he has Connor with him."
"Oh," Ellen replied, followed by a much louder, "OH!" realizing that meant Connor was dead. Nick and Connor's orbs floated into the room.
Ellen seemed at a loss for what to do, and I didn't blame her. The sudden loss of life was always jarring and not something you got used to. "I guess I'll put us on some tea."
"Okay," I replied, even though I didn't feel like drinking tea.
"I drywalled this place," Connor said when his ghost appeared. He inspected his handiwork and nodded in approval.
"Connor, I'm so sorry to see that you passed," I said.
Connor looked down at his semi-transparent self. "I dunno. It's not so bad. My brain don't work right anyway. Was gonna die real soon.” He shrugged his shoulders.
"You have a problem with your brain?" I tried to clarify.