Murder Ghost Foul: The Complete Mystic Springs Paranormal Cozy Mystery Series

by Mona Marple

  “I’m here, darling.” She crones into the phone.

  We watch as other lights flick on within the police station, until the front door is unlocked and Taylor Morton appears. He looks from side to side, not spotting us behind his car, and Lavinia runs into his arms.

  “Are they kissing?” I ask.

  “Of course they are.” Patton spits.

  “I’m not sure.” I say. “It could just be a hug.”

  “Yeah, of course. She’s come across town to hug the Sheriff…”

  The door closes and we watch Sheriff Morton lead Lavinia through the building, turning out each light as they go.

  “Wow.” I say. “Adele will be gutted.”

  “I told you he hadn’t changed.” Patton says, pulling me up from the ground.

  “What do we do now?”

  “We go. There’s nothing else we can do. But at least we know now, his head isn’t in the case. We need to run this investigation, Sage. Okay?” He holds my arms and looks at me with urgency.

  “Okay.” I say.

  We head back towards town, both lost in our thoughts. Patton’s stewing on Taylor’s behaviour, I can tell from his heavy breathing, and I’m thinking about how stupid men are. Sure, his wife’s probably not feeling too sexy at the moment after having twins, but she’s still leagues ahead of Lavinia Blackbottom the fourth.

  8

  Connie

  “That’s not the way it works.” I say, as I rinse my breakfast bowl. “For a start, you shouldn’t even be here.”

  “Shall I go out and knock on the front door?” The one-handed spirit in my kitchen asks.

  “Please.” I say. “I just won’t answer.”

  “Ah, you’re spunky. Just how I like them. Gorgeous flowers, by the way.”

  “They’re not mine.” I say.

  “I’m not surprised. You’re not very, well, welcoming to a man.”

  “Sod off.” I say to the spirit who stands before me in my kitchen. He’s old, way too old to be sexually attractive, and yet there’s something distinguished about him. Something magnetic. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Wilson Bruiser Esq! The pleasure is all yours, I’m sure.”

  “Wilson Bruiser?” I ask. “It’s your journal that’s caused all this drama that’s going on.”

  “I’ve been blamed for some things in my time but never a murder.” He says with a grin, flashing polished white teeth. Obviously false.

  “Why would you go and lie, anyway? Pretend you set the town up?”

  “I’ve never told a lie in my life, dear girl.” He says, and I think back to that phrase. Something about how the bigger the lie, the easier it is to get people to believe it. Surely, this rogue saying he's never lied is the biggest lie I’ve ever heard, and yet he’s strangely compelling.

  “So what exactly do you want from me?”

  “I want you to interview me! I know you do appointments. I’ll pay.”

  “Pay me what?”

  “I’ve got a few gold doubloons, fair?”

  “Gold doubloons? Are you a pirate now?”

  “A pirate?” He asks. “I’m offended. I’m well travelled, that’s all. All the rage in Spain, these were. Here, take these and give me an hour of your time.”

  He sees himself off into the consultation room, leaving me with a handful of gold doubloons. I sigh and follow him.

  “Why me? I ask, standing in the doorway, leaning my weight against the doorframe. He’s sat down on a couch, flung his legs up on to the coffee table, and even taken his boots off. His toenails are curled over and yellow. “And you’re going to have to put your boots back on.”

  He groans. “Fine. If they’re your terms. Come on, let’s get on with it. I bet you charge by the minute. I’m not paying for all this flirting.”

  “I am not flirting with you, trust me!” I exclaim, but I feel my cheeks redden. There’s something captivating about him as long as I don’t look at his feet.

  “In denial. Well, I can feel the sexual tension, but we really must get the work done first, love. You can have your wicked way with me afterwards, okay?”

  I turn away while he struggles, one-handedly, with his boots. There’s no way I’m offering to help.

  “Tell me when you’re done.” I call as I gaze out of the window. It’s a stifling hot day and I can already feel my underboob area grow damp. Way too hot to be having any sexual tension. Not that I’d want any anyway.

  “Are you done?” I ask, and turn around.

  Wilson Bruiser sits on my couch, boots back on, but his upper body naked.

  “Oh for goodness sake.”

  “Calm yourself, dear girl. It’s just warm in here.”

  “You’re ridiculous.” I say, but he’s doing it for a reaction. I’ve seen a torso before. I can ignore it.

  I sit across from him and pick up my notebook and pen. “Do you have the questions ready?”

  “Me? You’re the one doing the interviewing.”

  “But I don’t know how to interview you. And I don’t even want to interview you.”

  “You just want to take me upstairs, don't you, you mucky girl.”

  I roll my eyes and decide to grit my teeth and get through this as quick as I can. “Name?”

  “Wilson Bruiser, I’ve already told you that.”

  “Headline of interview?”

  “True founder of Mystic Springs breaks century-long silence! Something like that, anyway. You can play around with it.”

  “So you say you’re the true founder of Mystic Springs?”

  “I don’t say it, it’s the truth.”

  “And your evidence is?”

  “The journal.”

  “The journal’s missing.”

  “Ah.” He says, and moves into a prone position on the couch. “That’s a problem.”

  “End of interview then, I guess.” I say, jumping up from the couch.

  “You give up too easily. I can tell you what it was like?”

  “Fine.” I say, and I don’t really want to ask why I agree. Maybe sitting looking a spirit’s naked torso is the most excitement I’ve had in a while, and I don’t feel like admitting that to myself. “Tell me.”

  “I was wandering the country. Well, the world really, hence the doubloons and all of my accents. A bit of a nomad. I came across Blackbottom - what a name!” He laughs. “She was a frightful character.”

  “Who was she? There’s rumour she was a gypsy.”

  “Well, of course she was. They all were.”

  “The women? Were there other men?”

  “No, just those poor women.” He says. “They were in dreadful need of a man to lead them, and I didn’t particularly want the job but there was nobody else around. They were about a day away from dying of dehydration when I found them. They’d set out with a woeful supply of water.”

  “You just stumbled across them?”

  “Well, they stumbled across me.” He says. “I was camped out and they all appeared in their waggons. I thought it was a raid, and I was getting ready to take a few prisoners and maybe lose my other hand.”

  “Hmm.” I say, trying to scribble his words on paper.

  “Just a bunch of women, scared witless when they saw me. Scared I’d ravish them all, I guess, although within hours they were begging me to, of course.”

  “Of course.” I quip.

  “You’ll see. I have that effect.”

  “Carry on.” I moan. “You’re paying by the minute, remember.”

  “I rescued them. That’s it really. Lead them to water. Let their horses drink. They were lost.”

  “Lost?”

  “Absolutely lost. They’d set out from San Fran, thinking they’d find another plot, and lost all sense of direction. I’ll be honest, Connie dear, I couldn’t fight them off. It’s not good for a woman to be away from men for too long, it does something to their minds. So, they were all well and truly mad. I stepped in and took them under my wing. Said I’d find them a home.”r />
  “And?”

  “And the rest is history. I lead us to Mystic Springs. It was a gem of a find, with the springs. Nice temperature.”

  “It was you, not Lavinia?”

  “She was with me. I led her, like I led all of them. But it was my discovery, my team of women, and I was the first Mayor. Again, I didn’t want to be, but they couldn’t lead their horse to water, they had no chance of setting up a new town. I had to be Mayor.”

  “You?”

  “Wilson Bruiser, the man, the myth, the legend. Make sure that gets in the article, okay?”

  “You know I’m not a journalist, don’t you?”

  “What?” He exclaims, sitting bolt upright. “What are you doing, interviewing me then? Taking my doubloons?”

  “I’m a medium.”

  “Oh, for Cripes sake.” He says and covers his head in his hands. “I thought they said media. Something in the media. God darn it. Well, you’ll have to sell the story to the press.”

  “You thought I worked in the media?”

  “Look, this is fine, it’s more authentic this way. Like a grass-roots movement! Yes, yes, I couldn’t have planned this better…”

  “Clearly.”

  “Behave.” He says, sparring with me as he strokes his chest hair. I look away.

  “I need some more details about the town being set up, to make it believable.” I say.

  “Okay, what do you want to know?”

  “Why the name?”

  “Oh, I left that to the women. Women are good with little tasks like that. Makes them feel important. I gave them guidance, of course. Said the name had to have the same number of letters as my name. Wilson Bruiser. Mystic Springs.”

  “What was it like being Mayor?”

  “Hell.” He says with a groan. “Women shouldn’t be in gangs like that. There were days I was tempted to chop my other hand off, just to shock them into being quiet. They argued over everything, especially who was spending the most time with me. Such jealousy.”

  “And what was Lavinia’s role? Because everyone believes she was the leader, and the Mayor.”

  “She was a power-hungry little cow.” He seethes. “Always calling meetings and trying to show me up. She was wild. She’d fight me like she was a man! Throwing little punches, bless her. And then she’d calm down and be all apologetic. I think she liked the kissing and making up, you know. She weren’t bad in the sack, I admit that.”

  “You really are insufferable. I can see why she’d throw punches at you.” I say.

  He lets out a sharp laugh. “Word spread about our little home, and more and more people came. It was an exciting time! People moving out of the cities, wanting to be part of a new adventure. We had to pretend the women weren’t gypsies, of course. Hide the waggons. Nobody wanted to join a gypsy camp.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, they’re thieves, aren’t they?”

  “Is there any group of people you can’t offend?” I ask, incredulous. I was mad to consider him attractive.

  “Not that I can think of, why, have I forgotten one?” He asks, flashing the white teeth again. “Although you English are fine chaps.”

  “Right, that’s enough for an article. I’ll see what I can do.” I say, although I’m pretty sure I’m throwing the notes in the trash as soon as he leaves. “You can go now.”

  “You’re as warm as an icicle.”

  “That’s the goal.” I say.

  “As welcoming as a Do Not Enter sign.”

  “Very funny.”

  “As friendly as a smack in the face!” He exclaims, awaiting my reaction.

  “You can see yourself out.” I flash him a smirk and begin to walk out of the room.

  “You’re as spunky as your sister.”

  “You know Sage?” I ask, the smirk well and truly gone.

  “Oh yes.” He says. “I hope she likes the flowers I sent.”

  The newspaper run an article about Wilson Bruiser the very next day, but it’s nothing to do with me.

  It seems that Emelza Shabley sent excerpts from the journal to the press before she was killed. The date mark on the envelope was the day before her demise.

  “Good news day!” Ling cries, alone again at the news stand.

  “This Wilson Bruiser’s a real piece of work.” I mutter.

  “Handsome, though.” She says with a grin. “Don’t tell my husband.”

  “Where is he, Ling? Does he ever do any work?”

  She shrugs. “The man useless.”

  I shake my head. No young women grow up dreaming of getting married to a husband like Ling’s, who lies in bed while they go out to work. I wonder why she stays with him.

  “Big news for town, yeah?” She asks.

  “I guess.” I say, still not wanting to believe that a man as arrogant and pig-headed as Wilson Bruiser could really have founded the town.

  As I walk back across town towards home, I spot Lavinia Blackbottom leaving the police station.

  From the clothes she’s wearing, I wonder if she’s been arrested for being out in a state of undress.

  She waves at me when she sees me, as if we’re friends.

  “Connie, dear!” She calls.

  I walk across to her.

  “Yes?”

  “Just wanted to say hi! Hi!”

  “Erm… hi.” I say. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh yes, I’ve been helping Sheriff Morton with his enquiries. This whole business is so stressful. It’s what’s wrong with our country, you know. You can’t achieve anything without someone wanting to come along and take it. Well, we’ll get to the bottom of who hurt poor Emelza.”

  “I thought you didn’t get on with her?”

  “She had a dishonest streak, can hardly be blamed given her background.”

  “That she was a gypsy, you mean?”

  “Exactly. You’ve heard the rumours, too? Poor girl didn't deserve to die, though.”

  “Well…” I say, lost for words.

  “Nice chatting!” Lavinia says, and totters across the empty parking lot in the direction of her home.

  The police station front door opens and Sheriff Morton appears in the doorway. “Connie? Can I have a word?”

  “Sure.” I say.

  He leads me through the building, up the stairs to the first floor, and past an open plan area with eight empty desks.

  “Is this the HQ?” I ask, looking at the mess on top of seven of the desks. The last one, if used at all, must be used by someone obsessive about tidiness. It must drive them mad working with such messy people, I think.

  “It would be if we had any resources.” He says with a high. “It’s mainly just me.”

  “Surely one Sheriff can’t solve a murder case on his own?”

  “Well, I’m not on my own, am I? You’re still helping, right?”

  I nod, although I’m not sure I want to be involved. I’ve realised that if two murders make Adele want to leave town, she doesn’t care whether the case is solved or not. She just wants to leave, and keep her babies safe. I can’t criticise her for that, as much as I don’t want my new friend to go.

  “What’s on your mind?” He pokes as we reach his office. It’s a small cubicle, fit out with a flatpack desk and a computer that whirs in protest against having to work. I look out of the window over the main road just as an old Thunderbird goes past.

  “Wilson Bruiser came to see me.” I say.

  “And?”

  “Well, he’s horrible.”

  “Could he have done it?”

  “Done what?” I ask, clueless.

  Taylor glances at his cell phone and sighs. “Killed Emelza.”

  “Oh God.” I say, and a chill runs through my bones. Why hadn’t it occurred to me? I think of how vile he was. How much he seemed to hate women, and gypsy women especially. And he was no stranger to violence, if the stump at the end of one of his arms was anything to go by.

  Taylor looks at me curiously.

&nbs
p; “Yes.” I say. “I think he could have.”

  “Great.” Taylor says sarcastically. “Just when I’m starting to think this case is straightforward, now we have two suspects.”

  “Have you spoken to Lovey Lovegoode yet?”

  “I’m working on it.” He says, with another glance at the cell.

  “Is everything okay, Taylor?” I ask, thinking of Patton’s words.

  “It’s just a stressful case.” He says, arms folded, as he gazes out across the street.

  “You look like you’re waiting for a call?”

  “Always.” He grunts.

  The gypsy women are awful beasts, determined to take my treasure, my time and my mind.

  I fight them off best I can but I’m only a man. I have my limits.

  One woman, Lavinia Blackbottom, is the worst. My mortal enemy, more feared than any manly foe I came across. The men fight fair. She would seduce me into bed and then stab a knife in my back.

  “Unfortunate wording, isn’t it.” Adele says. We’re dining out for the night, at my suggestion, while Taylor holds the babies, and so far it’s been 26 minutes since we ordered and no sign of our appetizers.

  “Stabbing a knife in the back?” I say. The newspaper was on the table when we got here, I swear. I’m not that much of a geek that I’d bring my newspaper out with me to read across the dinner table.

  “He obviously thought he’d get to it before anyone could read it, apart from Emelza.” Adele says with a shrug.

  The waiter dashes past our table, a harried man with a balding head. A crash comes from the kitchen, followed by shouting.

  “Shall we just go?” Adele asks.

  “No way! This is your night of freedom, we’re going to stick it out to the bitter end.” I say, and she flashes me a weak smile.

  “I don’t know how nachos can take half an hour to prepare.”

  “Maybe they’re really good nachos.” I tease.

  “I doubt it.” She says as the waiter reappears, cheeks red, and walks past us and straight out of the restaurant.

  “Erm, I think he just left.”

  “Ugh, we should go, come on.” She says.

  “Too late.” I say as an overweight man with a beard that touches his belly button appears from the kitchen, holding a plate of food as if it’s an Olympic medal he’s just won.