by Cate Dean
Ghost of a Chance
Maggie Mulgrew Mysteries Book 1
Cate Dean
Copyright, 2016
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except for use in any review. This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locales, and events are either pure invention or used fictitiously, and all incidents come from the author’s imagination alone.
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Table of Contents
Copyright Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty One
Excerpt from Written on the Wind
List of British Slang
Ghost of a Chance
About The Author
Further Reading: More Than A Feeling
One
The second Maggie Mulgrew stepped out her front door, she knew it would be a wild hair day.
Wind blew off the English Channel, cold and crisp—and it played havoc with her already unmanageable red waves. Like everything else in her adopted village of Holmestead, she had learned to adapt to the almost constant wind by wearing her hair up when she ventured outside.
She had already tucked her hair in a messy bun, and resigned herself to having stray waves floating around her by the time she reached her shop in the high street.
“Good morning, England.” She smiled as she looked up at the clouds racing across the achingly blue sky. “It’s good to be here.”
She slung her oversized leather bag over her shoulder and danced down the porch steps, eager to start the day.
Her hair versus the wind was a lesson learned early, during her very first visit here. She had been a lonely, awkward ten year old, facing her formidable Great Aunt Irene Mulgrew for the first time. It was mutual admiration at first sight, and for Maggie, that admiration had blossomed into a deep, real love.
When she received the letter from Aunt Irene’s solicitor, informing her of Irene’s passing, Maggie responded by locking herself in her apartment for a week, mourning the only woman who had given her the love of a mother, and the wisdom of a friend.
Once she had started to accept what she never expected to happen, she opened the rest of the letters in the packet—including Aunt Irene’s will.
Her aunt had left everything to her.
Maggie took the sign for what it was—an escape from her controlling parents, freedom to live her own life. She had just celebrated her thirtieth birthday, and it was past time to walk away. They would never give up trying to change her.
So, less than a month after Aunt Irene gave her the world, Maggie arrived in the village of Holmestead, and started her new life.
She rounded the corner that led to the pedestrian high street, and took a deep breath. The air smelled like the sea, fresh scones, and the wildflowers that burst out of the pots in front of every shop.
It smelled like home.
Smiling, Maggie strode down the middle of the cobbled street, enjoying the sight of businesses getting ready for the day. Seagulls swooped overhead, their piercing cries another part of her morning.
Her gaze strayed to the castle, sitting at the top of the cliff. It could be seen everywhere in the village. The tall, ancient outer walls, and the square keep, were impressive guardians. Maggie had fallen in love with the castle during her first visit. Since her return, she had climbed the endless stairway leading up to it on a regular basis, to walk the grounds, and look out across the Channel.
On a clear day, she could see France. She loved that.
She stopped long enough to glance in the window of Only Old Books, the rare and used bookshop. Patrick Tucker sat behind his cluttered desk, the piles of books around him so high they looked like they would fall over with the slightest breath.
Someday, she’d get Mr. Tucker to smile at her.
Her own shop came into sight. The Ash Leaf carried an eclectic mix of antiques and modern goods, and it had done even better than her wildest hopes. Tourists loved the selection, all housed in the oddly shaped, angled rooms, with creaky maple floors and age blackened oak beams.
Maggie unlocked the front door, turned the sign to open, and flipped on the lights. They flickered for a few seconds before deciding to turn on.
“I really need Henry to check that out.” Henry Manning was the village’s handyman, good at just about any job. Maggie loved to sit and hear him talk, his brogue putting images of wild, rugged land and bagpipes in her head. “Spencer, are you here?”
She didn’t expect an answer. Spencer Knight, her best friend and only employee, slept like the dead. More than once, she had to call him to wake him out of his stupor.
She had hoped that today he would be on time. The big estate auction started at one pm, and she wanted to be there early to see the items up close before the auction.
“I’ll give him until eleven, then he’s getting a wakeup call he won’t forget.”
The first customer walked in just as she stepped out of the back room with her first cup of coffee, and her morning madness began.
***
“Maggie!”
Maggie turned at the shout, her hand on the antique latch of the shop door.
She smiled when she spotted Spencer bounding down the street, his sun-streaked blonde hair flying around his face. He skidded to a halt next to her.
“Do you know how many times I let the phone ring before I gave up?”
He kissed her cheek, flashing the smile that almost always got him out of trouble. “Sorry. Late night.”
She glanced at the watch pin on her jacket lapel. “It’s nearly noon. You slept through all three alarms?”
He shrugged, his grin too charming. “I came in on the last train from London. You should have gone with me, Mags—the show was spectacular.”
“Maybe next time.” She pushed the door open, turning the sign back to open before she walked over to the waist high, mahogany counter that served as her purchase point in the shop.
The show Spencer gushed over was the latest art show of one of his friends. Modern art. Undecipherable modern art. Someday, Maggie wouldn’t have a ready excuse for Spencer, and would have to smile her way through one of the shows.
She handed Spencer her key, because she knew he wouldn’t have his. “Keep the shop from burning down. I’m already late for the auction.”
He looked at the key, then at her, unsuccessfully hiding his panic. “You’re not driving, are you?”
“It’s at the Bingham Estate—no bus or train service.” She patted his cheek. “Don’t worry—I’ll stay on the wrong side of the road.”
“The correct side of the road, Yank.” He winked at her. Spencer had been calling her Yank since they were ten, after they met during Maggie’s first stay with Aunt Irene.
“Got it,” she said. “Hopefully I’ll need your help to unload my finds when I get back. Oh—the lights have been flickering all morning. I made a note to call Henry about it. If you get inspired, you can—ˮ
“I told you, Mags, it’s the ghost.” Spencer glanced around, then spoke again in a loud stage whisper. “She’s been hanging around for ages.”
“And I told you, I don’t believe in ghosts. Call if you need me.” She waved her m
obile, then slipped it in her oversized bag as she headed for the door. “Thanks for taking over, Spence.”
“Anything for you, slave driver.”
She fought her smile. “Get to work unloading the box of silver jewelry I tucked under the counter. I want an eye-catching display when I get back, or you’ll work the bank holiday instead of me.”
She waited for his dramatic reaction. Spencer didn’t disappoint.
He clutched his chest. “Not my bank holiday! However will I survive without my journey to the water which is my soul, my all?” He draped himself over the counter in a gesture so overblown, Maggie bit her lip to keep from laughing. It would only encourage him.
“I think you’ll survive. Now drag yourself off the counter and get to work.”
With a loud, drawn out sigh, he straightened. “Have a fab time, Mags. I love the jacket, by the way.”
She tugged at the peplum hem of her bright blue jacket. “It’s not too much?”
“Maybe for someone with less style. You look amazing, love.”
She blushed, and silently cursed her fair skin. It showed every emotion—whether she wanted it to or not.
“I’ll see you later, Spence. And thanks—for everything.”
“Hey.” He jumped over the counter with a grace she envied, and took her hands. “I love having you here, Maggie. I love working with you.” He wrapped his arms around her, and she felt grounded again. She felt like she was finally home. “I love you, my ginger-haired beauty. You know that, don’t you?”
“Always, Spencer.”
They had bonded at first sight, two lonely ten year olds, and became inseparable every time Maggie visited her aunt. Spencer was the brother she’d desperately wished for, in a home that had been neat, scrupulously clean—and loveless. Aunt Irene had helped fill that longing, with her brusque, but caring ways. And Spencer—he had filled her lonely life with joy.
“Stop,” she said. “Before you make me cry. Okay,” she eased away from him, and blinked until the tears stopped stinging her eyes. “I’m off. Be good.”
“Never.”
She laughed, giving him one last wave before she opened the door, and stepped out to the bustling high street.
June was a busy time in Holmestead. The local council campaigned hard through the year to draw tourists in, using the Holmes reference in the village’s name in not-so-subtle ways. There was no connection, but that didn’t stop them.
Maggie shook her head as she walked past the one shop that catered to those who came in search of a secret Holmes destination. Holmesania was a catchy name—too bad it didn’t live up to the promise. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a shop with so many tacky, tasteless souvenirs.
The shop’s owner saw her through the window and waved for Maggie to wait. She did, wishing she’d parked in the alley behind her shop, and risk scraping her fenders in the narrow passage, instead of in the public lot at the top of the street.
Enid Phillips bustled out, her white bouffant looking like she had just stepped out of the local beauty salon.
“Maggie, my dear, can you give me a hand?”
“Of course, Enid.” She followed the older woman into her loud shop. Enid called everyone dear, so Maggie had no illusions about a sudden turnabout with the woman, who ruled the local council with an iron fist. “What can I do for you?”
“I can’t quite seem to reach that box. Will you be so kind...” She let the request trail off, like she always did.
It worked in her favor; she never actually asked for help, just—suggested it. Maggie never thought she’d meet a woman more passive-aggressive than her mother. Enid Phillips won, hands down.
“Of course.” Maggie set her bag on the corner of the cluttered table, and hiked up her calf length skirt to climb the rickety ladder. “Where did you want it?”
“The front counter will be fine, dear.” She hummed under her breath, and Maggie braced herself for the insult—or suggestion, as Enid called her comments. “Don’t you think that jacket is a bit much with your hair? I believe one bright color is sufficient on a body, and your hair is quite—bright.”
“Thank you, Enid. I’ll take that into consideration.” She grabbed the surprisingly heavy box and climbed down, setting the box on the front counter. “Is that all you need? I’m heading for the auction at the Bingham Estate, and I will just make it if I leave—”
“You’re not driving, are you, dear?” Enid touched Maggie’s arm. “I know how difficult it is for Americans to orient themselves to the proper way of driving. You seem to be finding it more difficult than most.”
Maggie just managed not to sigh. “I’ll be careful, Enid. Thank you for your concern.”
She walked out before the woman could talk her into another favor—or add to her list of insults. Maggie knew it was something she’d have to deal with, since Enid’s opinion of her could mean the difference between being accepted in Holmestead, and treated as a barely welcome stranger.
That would not be good for business, or make it comfortable to live here. And Maggie wanted to live here, more than she’d expected when Aunt Irene first opened the door for Maggie with her generous inheritance.
The younger residents greeted her as she walked quickly down middle of the pedestrian street. Lilliana Green, owner of The Tea Caddy, stepped out to call hello. Maggie smiled, but kept going. If she didn’t start driving in the next few minutes, she’d be too late to register for the auction.
She finally reached her Land Rover, and slid behind the wheel, remembering to get in on the opposite side. The scarred Rover had come with the house, and held many fond memories for Maggie.
She found first gear, eased the hand brake off, and then took her time pulling out of the parking space. The sheer size of the Rover still intimidated her—never mind shifting with her left hand instead of her right. Thank heaven she already knew how to drive a stick. Mom had thoroughly disapproved of the robin’s egg blue VW van, so naturally, Maggie bought it.
After a few close calls with the tourist buses all trying to leave at the same time, she made her way to the two lane road that led out of Holmestead, and straight to the Bingham Estate.
Excitement raced through her, and she pushed her foot down on the accelerator. There was no one else on the road, so she let herself speed through the green, rolling countryside.
She couldn’t wait to see what treasures she might find.
Two
Maggie loved auctions.
The buzz of excitement surrounding the attendees, the anticipation of discovery, finding that one perfect object—it was like an addiction. One she couldn’t afford as much as she’d like.
But today she had been lured not only by the auction, but the chance to peek inside one of the most fabulous estates in Kent. She couldn’t let that opportunity pass by, even if she ended up leaving empty-handed.
She wandered around the expansive lawn, where tables had been set up to display the items up for auction. The furniture was off limits right away; the price of one chair was more than her monthly buying budget for the shop.
“Maybe one of the tchotchkes,” she muttered, caressing the curved arm of a Chippendale dining chair. “I could probably afford a few of those.”
After a last, lingering touch of the silky mahogany, she sighed, and headed for the tables with decorative items. A familiar figure, hunched over the book table, had Maggie smiling.
She made a detour, and stopped far enough from the table to keep from startling Mr. Tucker. She’d made that mistake once, and nearly gave them both a heart attack.
“Hey, Mr. Tucker.” He must have heard her, because he didn’t jump.
“Miss Mulgrew.” His rich brown eyes studied her from behind thick glasses. “Here to buy wares for your shop?”
She stared at him. Mr. Tucker had never said so much at once. “I—yeah.” She recovered, and moved a little closer. “Did you find some antique books?”
“The former owner was renowned
for his library. I managed to contact the auction house before the announcement, and the auctioneer, Tanner, has graciously held books for me.” He waved his hand over the table. “This is what I did not request. I simply wanted to be certain...” He waved his hand again, like he had finally run out of words.
“That you didn’t miss anything.” He nodded, his wild, grey-streaked tonsure like a halo around his head. “I’m going to head over to the decorative items. Enjoy the auction.”
She smiled, escaping while she had the chance. Mr. Tucker’s long silences could trap a person in what they thought was a continuing conversation—only to find after a few minutes of awkward, one-sided talking, that he was done.
Before Maggie reached the first table, a knife with a jeweled hilt caught her eye. She picked the knife up, then slid it out of the scabbard, laying it on her index and middle finger to check the balance.
The blade was beautifully etched, and well balanced, the hilt small enough for her hand. She checked the blade for any warping, and the part of her that always wanted to buy every knife she came across that met her personal criteria itched to own this.
She sheathed the blade, running one finger over the scabbard before she set it back on the table. Then she put a check mark next to the listing in her catalog. It wouldn’t hurt to make a play for it.
The box caught her attention the second she saw it.
It was long, and obviously built to hold a specific item, judging from the odd size. Maggie used a linen handkerchief she always carried to gently brush the bottom corner. Dirt came away, revealing what looked like a hand painted surface.
Excitement bubbled through her, but she kept her face neutral. To anyone who didn’t know antiques, it would look like an old box, out of place among the expensive figurines. Maggie noted the lot number, and casually walked away, forcing herself not to look back at the table.
Too much interest would draw other buyers—and she wanted that box. A careful cleaning would turn what she suspected was underneath into a showpiece. One she could sell for a high price—or, if she really loved it, add to her small but growing collection.