“This book was her life. She didn’t trust computers. She was a bit eccentric, which you’ll soon find out.”
“Okay, no computer, that’s fine. I brought my own and can import the reservations into my calendar, should I decide to stay.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. It’s one of her stipulations,” he added, glancing down at the document. “There will be no changes to how the inn is run nor to any structure inside the Inn or on the property itself.”
“Was she afraid I was going to tear it down?” I asked.
“We could only be so lucky,” he murmured, resting his hand on the box. “Inside this box is every answer to every question about the family and your father that you will ever want to know. It also contains the most prized possession of her estate and a trust in your name that will go in effect one year after you sign the agreement.”
“Let me guess. I can’t take a peek.”
“Not until your year is up. There are two more identical boxes, one for each of your half-sisters should they decide to stay.” Mr. Stephens rose and put the box back in the safe.
“Wait. I have half-sisters?” That thought confused me and terrified me. Maybe they’d grown up learning to use their magic. Maybe they’d known our father.
“You have two. I can tell you that should you decide to stay that the rewards will be worth it.”
“How do you figure? I’ll be staying in a house that you seem to think should be demolished, taking care of people I don’t know, for a woman I’ve never met, and I have to make good on obligations that I have no say-so in.”
“Your trust is worth five million dollars,” he said, hanging the picture back on the wall.
“She’s assuming I’m here for the money?” I said, rising and clutching my purse tighter to my side.
“Oh no, Ms. Venture, the money is just a bonus. Trust me when I tell you that the secrets hidden in that box are of much more value to you.”
He grabbed a manila envelope out of the file and handed it to me. “You’ve had a long trip. Let’s get you settled. It will give you time to process everything and read the extra stipulations. I’ll take you over to the inn and introduce you to the life-long residents and show you around.”
My brows crinkled, and as if sensing my dismay, Mr. Stephens smiled brightly. “Look at the bright side. Since you were the first sister I’ve found, you’ll get your pick of rooms, but if I may be so bold, I’d suggest you not pick the doll room. Many guests have left screaming in the middle of the night.”
“Please tell me the dolls aren’t considered a part of the structure of the inn.” Those would be the first thing to go. Creepy dolls. No thank you.
“Oh no, Ms. Venture, she covered them in the stipulations under ‘guests.’”
To find out more about Witchy Trouble, you can find it on Amazon by clicking HERE.
Deadly
Intent
Kate Allenton
Copyright © 2016 Kate Allenton
All rights reserved.
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Published by Coastal Escape Publishing
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Chapter 1
Most people would find it odd walking into their house, after a long day at work, to find a ghost poking his head inside a closed fridge. Quinn Thatcher wasn’t most people.
“Don’t be sliming all over my leftover Chinese noodles, Clarence,” she scolded while tossing her purse and keys onto the bar.
“You’re going to die from clogged arteries. There isnae a vegetable in your house, and as you well know, we donae ooze slime like in the movies.”
Quinn knew a lot about ghosts, and she should; it was her job. Yet she couldn’t help aggravating the uppity Scottish Highlander who had decided to haunt her day and night until she listened to his problems. The ghost was slowly learning she was even more stubborn than the leather pants in her closet that refused to budge over her hips. She, too, was unwilling to give that extra inch or three.
“Don’t you have some family members you’d rather haunt?”
“I donae.”
She sighed, left the food voyeur in the kitchen, and went to change her clothes and ditch her bra. The ghost wasn’t going to stop her from getting comfortable in her own home. Returning a few minutes later, she pulled her hair up into a ponytail.
“I can give you the addresses of a few people who deserve a good scare. Have you learned to rattle chains yet?”
His sigh of aggravation made her chuckle. She had this innate ability to bring out the best in everyone. Ghosts were no exception.
“Lass, I’ll leave when you help me.”
If only that were true. Quinn had been duped once by a little old lady who worried about who was going to take care of her ten cats. Never again.
“You shouldn’t have invaded my private space. I might have considered it.”
Quinn grabbed a pint of chunky monkey from the freezer and a spoon before turning on Gone with the Wind. The movie worked like ghost repellant; most disappeared before the opening credits.
“You’re gonna make me do this the hard way, aren’t ya, lass?”
“Give me your worst.” Quinn grinned while turning up the TV volume.
“So be it.”
Quinn’s mother had always warned her to be careful what she asked for. She was about to find out exactly which one was more stubborn—the Scottish ghost or southern medium.
****
Rest in Peace would never be inscribed on her gravestone, like the one she was sitting on top of. Nor would the attendees cry a tear once she kicked the bucket. Her death would never be from natural causes, more like from falling off a table while dancing topless as she belted out the wrong lyrics to her favorite song. It could happen. It almost had.
Both men and women wanted to strangle her for her unusual manner and razor-sharp tongue. One had already tried and failed miserably. The poor shmuck was serving ten in the state pen after a spirit convinced her that the perp was responsible for his early demise. Maybe she shouldn’t have confronted him alone. She wasn’t a cop; she didn’t carry a badge, and she didn’t solve crimes. Her contribution was a little more on the down-low and usually swept under the rug. Police agencies would never admit to using her skills, and she couldn’t blame them. How was she supposed to prove what she saw in her head?
Conversing with the dead was much more entertaining than conversing with the living. It was a gift and a curse, one she acknowledged proudly, like the red tangled curls on her head, which had lost their luster in the choking humidity and eerily strange wind while sitting in the cemetery. Gathering the strands, she pulled them back with the ponytail holder she kept on her wrist for just this purpose, and the occasional infliction of red marks on people she didn’t like.
Her only company lay entombed in a steel casket six feet beneath her feet. Darkness cloaked her in the graveyard; not even the moon was on her side. She wasn’t scared of waiting in the sacred place alone. Just the opposite.
Ghosts d
idn’t tend to hang around their final resting place, no matter what the living thought. She’d often tell her clients, if they wanted to talk to their deceased loved ones, to save the gas and do it in the comfort of their homes. Chances were good that their relatives were already visiting.
The scent of roses drifted to her nose. Conversation from approaching voices pierced her peace. She didn’t need to turn around to know her sisters had arrived. Their laughter could wake the dead.
“You’re all late,” she called out and hopped down off the cool marble stone, giving her bony butt a break. Steven Simmons would be pleased she was no longer sitting on his face.
“This place is creepy. I don’t know why we can’t meet at the office like normal people,” Becca called out as she approached. She shivered, rubbing her wool-covered arms. It didn’t matter that Becca was a native Floridian, living on the Redneck Riviera where the words ya’ll and drunken spring breakers were as normal as wearing flip-flops all year round in ninety-degree weather. Becca was in dire need of a supersized value meal to help her achieve another layer of fat to keep her warm.
Sometimes Quinn wondered whether Becca was really blood related and not the product of a secret affair between their mother and the butler. She shook her head. Regardless of Becca’s heritage and love for green vegetables, Quinn loved her.
“We get paid for creepy,” she reminded her.
“Tell me again why we’re here,” Quinn’s other sister, Cara, said while peering down at the stone in front of her. Her lips twisted into a frown as she touched the old cracked marble. Quinn’s butt wasn’t responsible for that particular crack. Cara’s ability was different from the rest of family that could see ghosts. One touch of anything personal, or emotionally charged by the dead, and she could see the spirit’s life flash before her eyes. Why anyone would need that ability was a mystery.
Quinn loved her sisters, all four of them, although sometimes they were the reason she enjoyed playing with the dead over the living.
“Where are Harper and Grace?” she asked impatiently, folding her arms over the big red lips printed on her shirt.
Cara yanked her hand to her chest and rubbed her palm. “They’re still out of town working in New Orleans. You’d know that if you actually showed up to our meetings.”
Well, if that news didn’t bite a big donkey butt. Those two officially couldn’t be persuaded by Quinn’s manipulative plan if they weren’t even in town. There would be another time for them. “Clarence finally wore me down but refuses to shimmer out of my life.”
Both of her sisters’ eyes widened, and they remained speechless. Quinn wasn’t surprised by their reaction. It took a lot to break her resolve. She’d ignored him for a solid month.
Last night, he’d breached her personal sanctuary, entering her bathroom during shower karaoke.
Quinn slipped her fingers into her pocket and slid out the reason for his constant badgering. A heart-shaped emerald, the size of her fist, dangled from a sturdy gold chain. The gem remained freezing to the touch, as if it had been hidden in the gallon carton of chunky monkey in her freezer instead of in a metal box buried next to Clarence’s headstone.
“Oh my God.” Cara lifted the heart into her palms. “This is real.”
“As real as my breast,” Quinn proudly announced after hours of research online, not taking Clarence at his word. She should have. It would have saved her time. “It’s an heirloom piece that belongs to the Menzie clan in Scotland.”
Cara yanked back her hand and pointed an accusing finger at the gem. “That thing is cursed. You need to put it back where you found it.”
“And risk Clarence becoming a permanent haunt in my life?” Quinn shook her head vehemently. “No can do, Cara. You must be smoking some good shit, and I’m kind of offended you aren’t sharing, but there is no way in hell that opera-singing wannabe is keeping me up at night for the rest of my life. Have you ever heard a Scottish ghost try opera?” Quinn’s entire body cringed at the memory of last night’s performance. The sound was as loud and annoying as a foghorn mating with a tornado siren.
“Maybe you should listen to her,” Becca suggested.
Bless her heart. She was still so young and naïve. “My research indicated that there are two clans still feuding over this little gem, Becca. Aren’t you the one who cares about world peace and love? I thought for sure that you’d be on my side.”
“We’re not going, and you shouldn’t either. I won’t touch that thing again, and Becca….she isn’t prepared enough to deal with the spirits in Scotland.” Cara slipped her arm around Becca’s as if Quinn was about to play a game of tug of war. The thought had crossed her mind.
Traitors. Quinn should be fuming and seeing red, but she was as proud of her baby sisters showing their claws like a mother bird watching her babies take flight.
“If that’s how you want to be, then fine.” Quinn waved the fortune in her hand. “If there’s any commission, then I’m keeping it, but regardless, this is my one shot to ditch Clarence, so I’m out of here.” She spun in her Converses and stalked away. “And I’m taking one of Daddy’s jets and charging it to the company.” No way in hell would she be tortured in cramped spaces with crying babies or worse. She had hours of sleep to make up for, thanks to Clarence. Get there, give them the jewelry, and then hightail it home and pray that Clarence shimmered from sight.
Chapter 2
A gush of cold air blew up Quinn’s skirt as she exited the plane. It reminded her of the famous picture of Marilyn Monroe, only her legs weren’t as slim and she had a lot more junk in her trunk. Other than that, they were practically twins from the neck down. Quinn rubbed her bare arms, trying to restore blood flow. Her sister’s wool parka wasn’t so funny now.
Johnny Smith, the family pilot, stepped out of the cockpit. His normally tan face was pale and held a tinge of green. Beads of sweat didn’t just dot his brow, they ran down like ice cream in a small child’s hand in the Florida heat.
“Are you okay?”
He nodded seconds before launching his lunch over the stair railing. The white chunks and green liquid made her stomach roll. Chicken and split pea soup. The nice thing to do would have been to rub his back in comfort, but she wasn’t nice. Instead of getting closer, she stepped back and covered her mouth with her hand, trying to ignore the retching sounds. No, no, no, she wasn’t getting sick in some godforsaken foreign town that probably didn’t even have a real doctor.
“I must have had a reaction to the food,” Johnny said, leaning back inside the plane and grabbing a towel for his mouth.
Sure. He had something all right.
“You’re my ride home. We need to get you to bed and get you better.” Quinn shivered and took his arm to help him wobble down the stairs and into the private terminal. Her skirt fluttered against her skin, giving the ground crew a free peep of her big white moon and matching-color G-string. Pervs. At least her legs were tan. “You need sleep.”
Not to mention a gallon of mouthwash and a toothbrush.
Outside the empty terminal, an old white-haired man stood in front of the black Town Car holding a cardboard sign with Quinn’s last name scribbled in a child’s handwriting. The fine lines around his mouth showed years of laughter. Warmth and knowledge sparkled in the depth of his blue eyes, the same shade as her favorite faded blue jeans.
“I’d like to check in at the hotel first please and then be taken to the Menzie castle.” She used her best southern charm. Johnny was no help, so she grabbed his bag and hers and helped load them both into the trunk while Johnny slipped inside the car.
“My name’s Angus. I’ll be your driver during your stay.”
Quinn shook his hand. “I’m Quinn Thatcher. It’s nice to meet you.” Her mother would be pleased she hadn’t rolled her eyes and just gotten in the car. Her mom was a true southern belle who had married into old money, but she’d never been one of those stuck-up snobs, like some of her chicken-legged friends. Her mom had taught her girls
to be just as pleasing. Quinn’s pleasing side could use some work.
“Aye, what brings you to our fair town?”
“Business.” She smiled politely like her momma had taught her and had been just as vague as dear old dad when mom questioned him about his late-night drunken escapades.
“Where’s the rest of your things?”
“That’s everything. We’re only staying overnight.” Quinn crossed her fingers, hoping what she said was true.
The limo lurched; Johnny’s hand flew to cover his mouth, and Quinn unceremoniously bonked her head against the seat back. Did Scotland even require driver’s licenses?
“Sorry, lass. We donae drive much around these parts. We prefer horses.”
Oh for the love of God. Quinn silently held her tongue, wondering if every passing mile was taking her a decade back in history.
****
Johnny settled into his own room, and Quinn left him with medicine and water before heading to the castle. The emerald sat heavy against her chest as her sister’s words about a curse entered her mind. Angus drove out of the small quaint town, giving her a picturesque view of heather growing freely in a multitude of purple hues over the passing farmlands. Her nose twitched in anticipation of her upcoming allergy attack. No matter how beautiful flowers were, being within ten feet of them started a sneezing fest that would leave her puffy and red for days.
Angus pulled down a long driveway and stopped. The stone castle loomed up into the sky. Construction workers scurried around the scaffolding against the one side of the building. Curse, shmurse. The owner wasn’t hurting.
A ghost dressed in a blue dress stood in one of the towers, looking down. “Uh-uh, I’m not here to deal with you. It’s my day off, lady.”
“Excuse me?” Angus asked.
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