Moody & The Ghost - Books 1-4 (Moody Mysteries)

by Kim Hornsby

  As I brushed my hair, the spikes now out from my before-bed shower, I considered growing it to shoulder length. I couldn’t be sure my cowlick at the back of my head wasn’t doing weird and wonderful things back there with the four-inch length I now had on top. My fingers couldn’t feel a cowlick. Maintaining a funky hairstyle had gone to the bottom of my chore list, these days but luckily, Eve helped when I needed to look edgy for the camera.

  I left my room, carefully found the banister and got myself to the first floor. My phone told me it was 7:43 am, too early for anyone else. Knowing that I’d be awake before the others, I’d had Eve set up the coffee maker timer last night to start dripping at 7:30. I could smell the coffee as I walked the hall, one hand on the wall, one hand tapping my stick in front of me to the tune of, “Locomotion.”

  “Everybody’s doing a brandy dance now, Come-on Lady, do the Locomotion.”

  I remembered the table and chairs being in the center of the kitchen and the coffee maker on the counter off to the left behind the fridge which Eve had said was “stainless steel, state-of-the-art.”

  Seated at the table with a cup of coffee with what I assumed was the cream we bought, I wondered if talking out loud to the ghost might reach anyone. Especially at this hour of the morning. Ghosts like the night. The witching hours between midnight and three seem to work best if you are looking for a ghost. The fewer people, the better, and if the lights are on, you are less likely to find one. There are ghost rules, although it had been my experience in the last twenty years since I’d discovered that some of the things I see are not actual living people, that rules don’t apply in every situation. However, for investigative purposes, we start after midnight, in the dark, with three people, sometimes splitting up to allow the ghost to break through in the quiet dark and be seen.

  It’s my belief that many ghosts are willing and enthusiastic to break our barriers, but it’s difficult. Moving an object or shutting a door takes much effort on the part of the ghost and that’s why spirits often disappear after a sighting. They put everything they have into making contact and then the connection is broken when they can’t maintain it.

  Nevertheless, I sat at the kitchen table in the daylight and spoke softly to the ghost in case she was listening. “My name is Bryn Moody. My husband died recently, and I want to reach him. He is Harry Moody. If you are listening and there is any way you can contact Harry, please tell him to give me a sign.” The coffee mug was warm in my cold hands. “If you find Harry Moody, please tell him I love him, I miss him, but I’m going to be okay.” I’d been whispering these words out loud for months except usually I addressed my speech to Harry directly. Without any response. Today, I tried talking to any old ghost who was listening.

  I paused, trying to hear verification I’d been heard--footsteps or a tap on the window. There was nothing but the sound of the refrigerator switching on, something that had me nearly spilling my coffee in fright.

  “Is anyone out there? Can you hear me? I want to make contact. I know it’s very difficult to cross over but can you tap on something, or give me a sign you’re with me?”

  I waited but nothing happened. As a paranormal investigator, I was fully used to asking questions that never got answered. I’d spent years trying to get signs from ghosts with no response. But this was different. If Harry was still with me, not yet crossed over, I wanted desperately for him to tap on the window or make my hair flutter in the stillness of that kitchen.

  “I’m going to sit here and drink a cup of coffee and if you can, tell me that you’re here.” A thought came to mind. Maybe something was changing, something visual, but I couldn’t see it. I decided to lay all cards on the table.

  “I’m blind. I can’t see anything since the accident that took my husband. And I used to be able to feel the presence of spirits on the other side but now I can’t. I’ve lost two senses. But my hearing is very good.”

  I sipped my coffee, set it down and . . .either something brushed against my hair or . . .

  I reached back to nothing, waited, listened.

  Finally, I reached for the mug of coffee and my hand went through empty space. The mug wasn’t where I’d left it. I carefully moved my flattened hand in front of me to find the mug, sure I hadn’t set it anywhere but directly in front of me on the table.

  Nothing.

  I stretched further, deeper along the table and swept my outstretched arm slowly in an arc across the table top.

  My mug had disappeared.

  “Did you move my coffee?” I wasn’t scared but highly excited that the ghost might have done this. It meant I was being listened to. I can’t deny that I hoped it was Harry. My heart beat with the hope my funny husband was playing a trick on me. “I’m going to put my arms down now and you can return the mug. When I lift my arms up to the table again, I hope my coffee will be there.”

  This game would appeal to a ghost with a sense of humor. I hoped our ghost had such a thing. I did not hear the mug sliding across the table, but then, I hadn’t heard the mug leave the table either. Had a heavy mug levitated? If so, that would be fricking amazing. I lifted my arms to the table and made the same sweeping motion from left to right. My mug hadn’t returned.

  Reaching out my arm, I swept farther, but found nothing. I sat silently for several minutes, wondering what I could possibly do to engage the ghost, if in fact he or she’d removed the mug from my grasp. “I wish I had that coffee cup. I really enjoy that first cup of coffee and don’t want to get up to find another one.”

  I waited, took several deep breaths, cursed the fact I couldn’t sense anything and battled the frustrated tears that threatened. A ghost was taunting me, and I hadn’t even had my first cup of joe for the day.

  “Thank you for telling me you’re here.” I pushed the chair from the table and found my way back to the coffee maker. Two mugs had been left beside the appliance and my hands found the second one. I repeated my earlier efforts of pouring myself a cup of coffee with cream.

  Sitting down at the table, I first took a sip, then set the mug in front of me. As I pulled my hand away my right hand brushed against something. I carefully felt for whatever was on the table.

  It was the other mug. Returned. With lukewarm coffee inside.

  Either I was going crazy or I’d just made contact.

  Maybe even with Harry.

  **

  Eve and I stood at what she described as a big-ass curvy window facing the ocean as she told me what she saw.

  “The fog’s gone and I can see the big pond. It’s dark blue and stretches forever to the horizon.”

  “Eve, please tell me you know that’s the Pacific Ocean.”

  “Affirmative,” she said. “In front of this window, is lawn, if you can call it that. The grass looks like the gardener died way before Mrs. McMahon.”

  Sometimes her descriptions were so raw but so visual.

  “There are huge rocks, boulders, near the edge of the cliff and I’m guessing it might be a long way down to the water. On the way far left is forest, on the right is scrubby bushes and trees. It’s sandy.”

  “How far from the edge is the house?”

  “I’m bad at this, you know that,” Eve apologized. “I’d say the width of a soccer field, maybe.”

  That worked for me.

  The doorbell rang, something we hadn’t heard before. It was a melodic tinkling of notes and then we heard Carlos yell from the foyer, where he was working with an electrician to fix the chandelier.

  “I’ll get it.”

  There was a part of me that always worried any doorbell would bring my mother, but I had to think she was busy driving her boyfriend Ron crazy with Mrs. Giovanni’s investigation and probably didn’t want to leave town until the bug zappers kicked her out of her house. “Mrs. Hightower, probably,” I said. The museum curator was expected any minute. “Shall we go see,” I said, realizing too late that I’d said something that mocked my blindness. I wouldn’t be seeing if it was Joan High
tower. I would be hearing or maybe smelling, if she wore perfume. I held out my hand and Eve took it to set on her arm. We walked towards the front of the house.

  “Mrs. Hightower,” Eve said as we approached the voice of Carlos welcoming someone to Cove House.

  “Hello. It’s lovely and also strange to be back in the house.”

  I recognized Mrs. Hightower’s voice from the phone.

  Eve turned us to walk a half circle around what I assumed was the no-go zone under the chandelier, while Carlos offered to take our guest’s coat.

  “Thank you for coming to visit with me,” I said. “You probably can see that I’m blind. It’s something I’m still getting used to having happened only months ago.” I didn’t meet many new people these days and didn’t have a speech prepared about my blindness. I needed to get something ready, I guessed. I extended my hand in the direction of Mrs. Hightower’s voice and heard a click of heels on the floor. Her hand was warm in mine. She had probably just gotten out of a heated car.

  “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Moody. I’ve seen your show on the computer.”

  In taking a hand, I would usually have a sense of someone by now, but nothing came through. Only the sense that someone with warm hands was nervously pumping my arm. “Let’s go sit in the library and talk. I have a few questions for you, Mrs. Hightower, so I hope you won’t mind providing some answers.”

  “If I have them,” the woman said from behind me.

  We’d spoken briefly on the phone about the history of the house and I’d lured her here knowing she loved history, but what I really wanted to ask about was Belinda McMahon and her ghost.

  We sat in the leather chairs by the fireplace, a spot I was becoming familiar with. The fire was still burning from earlier and my shins warmed in the heat.

  “Eve, can you fix us a cup of tea? Is that preferable or would you like a cup of coffee, Mrs. Hightower?”

  “Tea is fine and please call me Joan.” Her perfume was heavy and spicy.

  I pretended to look towards the fire and wondered if I’d hit my mark. I still wasn’t sure if looking off into space looked freaky and made people feel uncomfortable. I was wondering what question to lead with when Joan spoke.

  “I haven’t been in this house for a month or two. I see you haven’t done anything to it yet.”

  I detected a nervous quality in her words like she might be lying. That wasn’t telepathy, but simple intuition. “No. We just got here, really. I doubt we’ll change much except the sheets.”

  Joan chuckled nervously, and I pictured her studying me.

  “As you can imagine, I’m very curious why Belinda McMahon wanted me to have this house. I hope you can provide an answer to that.”

  “Didn’t you get a letter from her?” Joan’s voice went higher, like she was only trying out a scary question.

  “Yes, I did get a letter to say she hoped someone with my talent could help. Did you read the letter?”

  “No, I only knew there was a letter.”

  She was lying. I nodded, then waited for answers.

  Finally, Joan sighed. “Like she said, Belinda wanted you to investigate this house.”

  “Because she was a fan of the show?”

  “Yes. She admired your ability with spirits and watched your show regularly. We both are fans, were fans. Belinda watched your episodes over and over. She thought you had wonderful onscreen presence as well as an uncanny ability and sensitivity to ghosts.”

  I couldn’t tell Belinda’s friend that I’d lost the whole reason I’d inherited the house, even if I desperately hoped my lack of telepathy was only temporary. I needed to know more from this woman, so I continued without divulging I was a fake. “And this wonderful old place has a ghost she wanted me to help.”

  “Yes.” She almost whispered.

  “What does the ghost need, do you know?”

  “No.” Her answer came too quickly for honesty.

  “You can’t tell me, or you don’t know?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice a least two registers higher than five sentences ago.

  Eve’s footsteps on the floor interrupted my interrogation of our guest. I assumed Eve was balancing a tea tray by the slowness of her steps approaching.

  “Here we go,” Eve said. The tray was set on a table near us and I heard the slosh of tea being poured.

  “Joan was just telling me that she knew Belinda wrote me a letter.” I tried not to say it accusingly, already sensing I might have gone too far with this skittish woman.

  I heard Eve hand a cup to Joan, a “thank you” then Joan stirred her tea, the spoon hitting the sides of the cup. The tinkling sounded like Eve had broken out real teacups and saucers. Then my tea was handed to me in a mug and I was slightly disappointed, like I’d been forced to drink from a sippy cup instead of a real cup. Even though I knew the fewer moving parts on anything for me the better, it still left me with a twinge of sadness. At Harry’s funeral, my mother had chastised Eve about not handing me hot tea in a cup and saucer, and now Eve was being very careful.

  “Belinda must have been an interesting person. Did she not have family to leave the house to?”

  Eve pulled a chair into the group and I heard the creak of the chair springs as she sat.

  “She has an estranged daughter living in Florida.”

  I thought about how I’d feel if my mother gave the family house to a stranger. “Was Belinda tempted to leave Cove House to her?”

  “Not at all. Her daughter thought she was crazy and tried to have Belinda put away in a home fifteen years ago. This was when her mother said there was a spirit in the house.”

  That explained something. “How long did Belinda live here,” I asked.

  From the next room, Carlos yelled “watch out!” and then there was a crashing sound in the foyer. Not enough noise to be the whole chandelier.

  “I’ll be right back,” Eve said as she left the room, her footsteps tapping across the floor.

  “Belinda inherited this house from her grandfather at the age of thirty-five but didn’t move here until after her daughter had set out on her own and moved to Florida. Belinda was here about forty years.”

  “And you knew her all that time?”

  “Mercy no. I moved to Smugglers’ Cove about five years ago to be closer to my son and his family and met Belinda through the historical society.”

  I heard a swallow of tea.

  I wanted Mrs. Hightower to understand how seriously I took the task I now had to find and help this ghost. Even if Eve was the one I had to work through. “I will do everything I possibly can to contact this lingering spirit and see what help I can be.”

  “That’s what Belinda hoped.”

  “Our investigation starts tonight. I believe the ghost was murdered in a bedroom upstairs.” I decided to throw it all out there. “Can you confirm this?”

  Eve returned and put a log on the fire while explaining that the electrician’s tool box fell and spilled. “It was a bit mysterious. That thing weighs twenty pounds and wasn’t sitting on the edge of anything.”

  I made a note to ask Carlos about it later. Could a ghost tip over such a weight?

  “The electrician was spooked and left and now Carlos is measuring levels around the area,” Eve said settling back into the chair. “I’m pretty sure Carlos said something to scare him off, social pariah that he is. Probably said it was the house ghost.”

  Joan’s teacup met the saucer with a clink and I heard enough to realize she was standing.

  “I must get back to the museum. It’s been lovely talking with you.”

  I quickly placed my mug on the table beside my armchair. I had hoped for more from this woman and wondered why she came if she was going to deny knowing anything about the ghost. “It’s been lovely talking with you, too,” I said. “Do you want to stay informed on what we find?” I stood, knowing that was the polite thing to do when your guest is about to make a mad dash to the door.

  “I�
�m sure I’ll see it on your show.” She cleared her throat, possibly to get her voice down to a comfortable octave.

  “Please don’t leave on my account,” Eve said from four feet away. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation.” My cousin sounded regretful, not realizing that this woman was guarding something she did not want to give up. Not even to me.

  “Oh, no,” Joan said. “I have to head back.”

  I wasn’t getting psychic signals of a lie, but I was sure Eve was. “I hope we can keep in touch. You’re the only local person we know here.” I tried to not sound desperate as I extended my hand for hers.

  “That would be lovely. Thank you for the tea.” Joan Hightower’s footsteps clicked across the floor, Eve’s footsteps close by. She hadn’t seen my extended hand.

  “Joan?” I called. I had to ask. “Before you leave, is there anything at all that you can tell me about this ghost. Who she was, what she wants?” I turned towards them, now knowing I must’ve looked strange speaking to Joan, but facing the fire. There was a pause.

  “There is one thing I know. The ghost is not a woman, but a man.”

  I stopped and held my breath, like waiting for wildlife to feed from your hand. “Are you sure?”

  “Oh yes. That I’m sure of. And if I recall Belinda’s words correctly, he’s quite a handsome man.”

  Footsteps tapped their way to the door and Joan Hightower was gone.

  Chapter 8

  Eve and I walked along the grass in front of what she’d just called “the big curvy window,” my arm in hers, like most blind people do to insure they don’t step off a fifty-foot cliff.

  When I suggested we take a walk outside now that the rain had let up, Eve had groaned but relented. She could probably see what a gray day awaited us, but I needed fresh air.

  It was only since working with me that Eve had discovered she’d inherited the family gift in a small way. Recently, I’d helped her rein in her flailing psychic abilities that were making her life miserable, something she’d attributed to her crazy personality. I’d known better. Eve had been plagued with accurate hunches and severely accurate intuition for the last few years and hadn’t known that it was more than that. It was the Primrose blessing or curse, whatever way you wanted to look at it. I loved my little cousin with a fierceness I’d never felt for anyone else.