Empaths and Paws

by Penny Brooke

  Empaths and Paws

  A Spirits of Tempest Cozy Mystery Book 1

  Penny Brooke

  Copyright © 2020 by Penny Brooke

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. The Time Had Come

  2. Oreos, Chicken Legs, and Ghosts

  3. Home Disaster Home

  4. Baking Electricity

  5. Lemons and Leaks

  6. Grand Openings

  7. Mummy Take-Over

  8. The Nightmare Begins

  9. Everybody is Cookin’

  10. It was Raining Bodies

  11. Lessons in Looking

  12. The End is Near

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  Blurb

  The seaside community of Tempest welcomes back one of its daughters as Fiona leaves city stress behind and moves into Mortimer House—the family Victorian she inherited.

  A sensitive, Fiona loves animals and soon finds herself adopted by a rambunctious mini schnauzer, Lizzie Borden, and an adorable kitten, Henrietta. Together with some old friends, Fiona converts the aged mansion into a boarding house, but not all the guests who come to stay are alive.

  How does a dead body find its way into a bedroom wall? And will Fiona find her Aunt Mable’s missing ferret, Sherlock Holmes? It’s only one read away.

  1

  The Time Had Come

  I’d once told myself I’d never go back to Tempest again.

  That was twenty years ago, and now that was precisely where I was going.

  I wish I could say it was a triumphant return, that I cruised into town in a butter-yellow Cadillac with Louis Vuitton luggage wedged in the back seat. But things don’t always turn out the way you plan.

  Just like any teenager, I had dreams. I couldn’t wait to careen into the world like a bowling ball ready to knock down any pins that were in my way and make a path. I would make a change. It all felt simple. All I had to do was leave my deadbeat town, Tempest, and take what was mine. I’d be a force to be reckoned with. That was until I got to the city and met Fred.

  Cigar smoking, double-chinned, phlegm hacking Fred Costello.

  “You have heart, kid,” Fred had said, reading my piece behind an old, chipped wooden desk. “I’ll give you that.”

  “Fiona,” I said, eyeing him across the desk. “My name is Fiona Parkins.”

  He paused, looking up from the paper before popping his cigar back into his mouth to take a long drag. As he exhaled, I waved the smoke away and let out a little cough. He stubbed out his cigar. “I’ve got a meeting with management,” he said, getting to his feet.

  “Does that mean I got the job?”

  “What makes you think you got a job here?”

  “Sir… Mr. Costello,” I started, steadying myself as I got up from the old, wobbling chair. “You said you liked my piece.”

  Fred nodded, grabbing his jacket and smoothing out his graying hair with his thick fingers. “I said, you had heart.”

  He wasn’t looking at me. Not a good sign. I had to say something quick before my dream of being an investigative reporter in a big city slipped through my fingers.

  I straightened myself. “Heart is good, isn’t it?”

  He started for the door, sidestepping around me.

  “Isn’t that what this world needs? A little heart?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, turning to look me in the eyes. “It needs the truth. The cold, hard truth.”

  “Okay, I can write the truth.”

  Fred shrugged before opening the door to his office. “Fine, but just so you know, it won't be a walk in a field of dandelions. Besides, I’m sure you won't last the week, anyway.”

  Twenty years later, and I’m sitting in the same wobbling chair—older, wiser. And Fred is still sucking on a cigar, and he has a full head of gray hair.

  “What do you mean you’re quitting?” Fred’s voice was gravelly.

  “Fred, I have to go back to Tempest. My Aunt Mable died.”

  Fred shook his head. “You never mentioned you had an aunt.”

  I rolled my eyes. Of course, Fred didn’t remember. He wasn’t a very good listener when it came to small talk. Good reader. Great investigator. Terrible friend. “Well, technically, she’s my great aunt—my grandmother’s only sister—but I always called her Aunt Mable.”

  “So your grand-aunt, then.”

  “Whatever. But the point is, Fred, I received the news a couple weeks ago that she died of natural causes. Remember? I asked you about bereavement leave, and you didn’t know what it was.”

  Silence hung between us.

  I sighed. “I took that Friday off to mourn, and you called me fifteen times about the Babek murder.”

  I saw the lightbulb go off in Fred’s eyes. “Right! The Babek murder. Did you finish the piece?”

  “Fred,” I said, rubbing my temples.

  Fred dropped his shoulders and let out a sharp breath.

  I continued, “My Aunt Mable meant a lot to me, and I have to tend to her affairs.” It was more than that; I’d inherited the old boarding house she ran in Tempest. Mortimer House.

  Fred rested his cigar on a tray of dirty ashes. “I’d just hate to see you go, but maybe it’s time for you to get outta here anyway before you’re like me. An old, washed-up divorcé who allowed time to pass me by.” He forced back his office chair and stood. “You know, I’ve never been one for long good-byes.”

  “Thank you, Fred.” I gave him a hug. “And about the Babek piece, I finished it last night.”

  Fred grinned. “I’m sure gonna miss you, kid.” He nodded toward the door. “Leave your forwarding with Marge and clean out your desk. Oh, and leave that bag of M&Ms you have stashed in your desk for me, will you?”

  And that was it. Just like that, twenty years of brutal work with minuscule accomplishments and all I had to do was say, “I’m out,” and that chapter of my life was over.

  Now, I was on my way home. It wasn’t the smoothest ride, but homebound, I was in a coughing 1997 cherry Chevy pickup—well, more like orange due to the rust—and it backfired regularly. Attached to the hitch was a small trailer, so wobbly, I’d had to stop twice and have the tires re-inflated. I promised myself if it got me to my destination, I’d throw a dandelion on its bed and give it a proper send-off at the town junkyard. That is, provided it was nearby.

  Funny how as a kid, you’re itching to get out of your hometown, and when you grow up, you’re itching to come back. The highway descended gradually into Tempest, the ol’ Maryland coastal town, which began at sea level on the Atlantic before rising to bluffs where the commercial and residential areas started. A favorite tourist town, our population more than doubled during the high season. While many of the small business owners—which included my Aunt Mable—welcomed the added revenue, the locals dreaded the crowds and the suspension of our chatty, tightly-knit community.

  I rolled my window down halfway as I approached Huckleberry Bridge, a vintage, covered wood bridge that carried residents and the GPS-deficient traveler over the Tempest River. Slowing to the point of creeping, I stopped at the peak and looked downstream though the top-hinged windows. I inhaled the familiar scent of damp leaves and fallen logs. The pavement was wet, so I knew a storm had recently come through. There could be some magnificent storms, and I was a sucker for every one of them. One memory stood out as the reason I was still that little girl during a rainstorm who’d never grown up.

 
“Daddy, Mom says to come in. Supper’s ready.” I walked up behind my dad and tapped him on the hip.

  “See them clouds coming?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Storms ’a brewing.” He stared out into the horizon, his hands in his pockets, shuffling quarters rhythmically.

  “Mom says it’s dangerous to stand outside in a storm.”

  “Is that so?” he said, looking down at me with a smirk.

  I looked over my shoulder, anxious that Mom would grow impatient and come out to give us both a piece of her mind for supper getting cold.

  Dad chuckled. “When I was at sea, do you think all the sailors ran into the hold every time a storm hit? Of course not. The trick is to be one with Mother Nature. Take what she gives and learn that she always has an order to what she does.”

  I felt a few trickles of rain bounce off my forehead.

  Dad set his sights back on the rolling dark clouds, roaring overhead, and I followed his gaze. The wind suddenly whipped my blonde hair back behind me.

  “Here she comes,” he shouted over the rustling dry trees and tall, dead grass.

  As the wind picked up even more, and we watched the world grow dark, I took a deep breath, inhaling the salty air. Then the clouds opened, dumping buckets of cold rain over our faces. It was refreshing!

  Dad let out a whoop and laughed.

  “What are you two doing?” Mom hollered over the chaos of the rain. She stood dry under the awning of the back porch, her hands on her hips. “Get in here! You’re both soaked to the bone!”

  Dad’s grin only widened. There must’ve been something in his eyes at that moment because Mom’s face warped from her typical motherly concern to giddy little girl. She shouted, “Oh no, you don’t. Don't even think about it, Robert. You stay away from me.”

  But it was too late. Dad had caught her by the hand and pulled her out from her cover. Almost instantly, her light, bouncy curls were straggling, wet locks that stuck to her face. But she threw her head back, inviting the rain and laughing as Dad danced with us in the downpour as supper sat on the table inside.

  It was our particular special time, and I’d never forgotten it. When you were in the dentist’s chair, and they told you to relax and go to your happy place, that’s where I went.

  Sighing, I pressed down on the accelerator lightly. The engine groaned as I drove on and headed into town, passing the sign that said, “Welcome to Tempest, the whispering town.”

  2

  Oreos, Chicken Legs, and Ghosts

  The old Chevy pickup was a real fighter, chugging along down the quiet street of my old hometown. I said a little prayer that it had gotten me this far. When I’d started my journey, I’d decided my arrival would be a surprise to a dear friend from high school, Gretchen. She was that friend with whom I could instantly pick up where we’d left off, even if it had been more than a year since we’d spoken. I was reasonably sure she still lived on Eagle’s Lane.

  I pulled up to the curb, the truck crawling its final inch before death. It let out a couple of hiccups before blowing a final backfire. I wasn’t sure it would start up again if I tried, but decided to let it rest. “You done good, ol’ Betsy. You done good,” I said in my best southern drawl, patting the cracked dashboard.

  Through the front living room window of my friend’s modest blue house, I could see her clearly, her red, spiraling curls bouncing. Craning my neck to get a better look, I wondered what she was doing. I pulled my keys from the ignition and slid off the red, torn truck seat. As I got closer, I could hear Queen blasting inside and noticed she was vacuuming while simultaneously dancing… and singing at the top of her lungs. It was evident that she’d never had a lesson in her life. Grinning, I sneaked around to her back door, and sure enough, it was open. I’d forgotten this was Tempest and not the big city.

  I stood in the doorway and, gathering all my strength, shouted, “Hey!” at precisely the same instant she flipped off the vacuum, so my greeting dwarfed the music.

  She shrieked, clutching her chest. “Oh, my gawd!” she said panting. After she caught her breath, she asked, “Fiona? Is that you?”

  I was laughing so hard, I’d forgotten about my long drive with no bathroom breaks and nearly peed myself. Between giggles, I managed to say, “I’m going to pee my pants!”

  “Good!” Gretchen grumbled. She put her hands on her hips. “At least I won’t be the only one to experience an embarrassing moment today. That wasn’t very nice, you know.”

  I let out a final snort before a smile crept over her face. “I can’t believe you’re here, Fiona!” She walked steadfastly toward me with her arms stretched out, and we embraced.

  “Seriously, Gretch, I think I’m going to burst.”

  Gretchen pulled away. “Oh, you know where the bathroom is,” she said as she coiled the cord on the vacuum handle.

  When I finished in the bathroom and came out, she was putting the vacuum in the closet. “Well, at least the house is clean,” she said with a smile. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I just thought I’d take the long drive over to your place to watch you perform Queen’s ‘Don’t Stop Me Now.’ I didn't know a vacuum cleaner could make for an awesome microphone and dance partner.”

  “Stop it,” she said, giving me a playful swipe. “Go into the kitchen, and I’ll make us some tea.”

  We headed in through the archway toward her retro-styled kitchen that looked like something out of a 1950s Betty Crocker cookbook. Gretchen was a self-proclaimed interior designer. Something she was already doing before I left town, but I hadn’t realized how good she was at it. “I love what you did with the place.”

  Gretchen shrugged, filling up the kettle. “I thought I’d try out retro for a while. My ex hates it.”

  “How is Jonah?”

  Gretchen paused. “Oh, no. Jonah was two husbands ago.”

  The shock must’ve been written all over my face.

  She laughed. “My latest was Samual, but we recently divorced.” She turned on the stove, and it clicked several times, igniting a blue flame. “So there was Jonah, then Will, and last was Samual.” She picked up a brown tin with birds and flowers painted on it. “What flavor tea do you want?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, still processing her list of husbands. I was sure there were others before Jonah, even, but I didn’t broach the subject. “Pick one for me.”

  “Hm.” Gretchen dug through the tin of tea packets. “How about chamomile?”

  “Isn’t that for bedtime?” I asked.

  Gretchen shook her head. “Doesn’t have to be.” She continued digging. “Oh, I have dandelion.”

  “Dandelion?” I tilted my head in confusion.

  “Yeah, dandelion. What’s wrong with dandelion?” It was Gretchen’s turn to cock her head.

  “I don’t know if I want to be sipping on a throwaway flower that’s considered a weed.”

  “What are you talking about, throw away? Dandelions are tough and can grow through the cracks of a sidewalk. If you ask me, I think they get a bad wrap. Who doesn’t want a field of green grass dotted with gold? Without ’em, our lawns would look too… green.” Gretchen crinkled her nose.

  I let out a chuckle. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Do you have lavender? Now that’s a flower,” I said with a wink.

  “Geez, you always were picky.” She shuffled through her tin of tea packets a bit more. “There ought to be something in here that makes your highness happy. “Ah,” she said, holding up a tea packet with a lavender flower on it. “Ask, and you shall receive!”

  Just then, the kettle let out a low whistle before crescendoing into a full-blown cry. Gretchen rushed over, relieving the kettle’s anguish.

  “Here you go.” The mug she handed me had hand-painted roosters and a chicken leg molded into a handle. It fit surprisingly well into my hand.

  We settled at the Formica table with the red vinyl-padded chairs, and she pushed a plate of Oreos at
me.

  I scrunched up my face. “You know what’s in those things?” I asked.

  Gretchen carefully took a sip of her tea and set the cup down. “Do I want to?”

  “The first ingredient is sugar,” I explained. “And after you get past the ingredients you can’t pronounce, you’ll see high-fructose corn syrup. You might as well begin chemotherapy now.”

  Gretchen threw her head back in laughter. “When did you become such a food snob?”

  “I call it my survival instinct.” I hadn’t become so much a food snob as I’d taken up cooking, primarily baking. It helped to maintain sanity and my sense of home in the cracker box of an apartment with heat in the summer and air conditioning in winter. I was busily pushing those memories away, sort of a mental time-warp leap.

  “Okay, enough small talk. Why are you here?” Gretchen asked.

  “I quit my job.” I said it without emphasis or pomp.

  “Yeah, right. No, really, on vacation?”

  “Actually, no. I really did quit my job.”

  She grabbed my wrist, a factor which made lifting the chicken leg handle all the more difficult. “Why, for heaven’s sake? I thought you loved your job.”

  “I did… but chasing story after story—most about murder—my flame went out. I’ve been running on empty, and I want to slow things down in my life. I don’t think I had a day off for twenty years!” I didn’t mention the bereavement time I took. But that didn’t really count anyway. Not with Fred calling every half hour. I really didn’t have time to mourn my aunt or absorb the fact that I had inherited her house.

  “What are you going to do?”