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

by Mona Marple

  “Yes. Patton, he was the Sheriff before Sheriff Morton. He recognised what a gunshot wound looks like.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I’m British.” I say, although that’s not necessary, my accent is still strong. “We don’t have as much to do with guns as you do here.”

  “Was Sheriff Morton alone when you found him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “He wasn’t conscious.”

  “Do you have any idea who would want to hurt him?”

  “Yes.” I say. “Emelza Shabley was killed recently. Sheriff Morton was very close to solving the case. I imagine whoever killed her tried to kill him, to stop him solving the case.”

  “Emelza…?” The woman asks, pen poised ready.

  “Emelza Shabley.”

  “I know that name.” The woman says, surprising me and the male officer both. “She comes from the Blackbottom family, doesn’t she?”

  I let out a small laugh. “Oh, no. The Blackbottoms founded Mystic Springs. Emelza Shabley was a gypsy.”

  The woman shrugs her shoulders, the point not worth fighting to her. “And she died how?”

  “She was stabbed.”

  “Did Sheriff Morton tell you who his suspects were?”

  I pause. I don’t have much faith in these pair, but they’re the only chance of me getting Lovey arrested until Sheriff Morton recovers. “Yes, it was a, erm, Lovey Lovegoode.”

  “He was going to arrest him, was he?”

  “I believe he was going to arrest him today.”

  “Based on?”

  “Motive, opportunity, and the murder weapon belongs to him.”

  “Okay, that’s great.” The woman says, continuing to jot down everything I say. “Anything else?”

  “About what?”

  “About what’s happened to Sheriff Morton? We’ll file this report tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Aren’t you going to arrest Lovey Lovegoode tonight?” I ask, suddenly awake.

  The officers look at each other again. “This is a Mystic Springs case, we can’t arrest anyone.”

  “But our Sheriff is lying in a hospital bed. You have to do something.”

  “We can’t.” The man says, watching me with a tilted head. “But we’ll make sure this is all filed.”

  “And a darn lot of good that’s going to do!” I exclaim.

  “Please, ma’am, don’t get excited.”

  “I’m not excited! I’m infuriated! There’s a murderer on the loose and you’re refusing to help!”

  “Well, I think we’re all done here. It’s been a long day and I know we all need to get some rest. Thanks for your time, Ms Winters.”

  And off they go, without so much as checking if I need a ride.

  I do need a ride, of course, because I came in the ambulance.

  I stand outside the hospital, pacing the sidewalk until my cell phone gets signal, and then dial the number.

  “I thought you’d never ring.” The woman’s voice says, followed by a cackle. “They’re done with you?”

  “I’m so sorry to bother you. Could you pick me up?”

  “I’ll be there in 10.”

  Violet Warren speeds into the parking lot seven minutes later, and I try not to wonder how many speed limits she’s broken to get here that fast. She’s in a leopard print dressing gown that’s tied at her waist and her chicken legs are bare and skinny. Old-fashioned house slippers, complete with both fur and a small heel, finish the look.

  She lowers the passenger window and reaches across. “Fancy a ride, sugar?”

  I let out a small laugh and the release of emotion opens the floodgates; before I know it, I’m crying as I stumble into the car.

  “Oh, love, don’t get upset.” Violet says with a grin. The town has been wary of her for many reasons, not the least of which being that she’s a witch, but despite her eccentricity and her straight-talking style, she has a good heart.

  “You expected my call?”

  “Well, sure.” Violet says, making no attempt to pull away from the hospital. “When Adele got home without you, I figured you’d be stuck out here. I hoped you’d ring since I was up anyway. He’s going to be okay?”

  “It looks like it.” I say, with a smile. “I don’t know why I’m upset now, I think I’ve just been holding it all in.”

  “Let it out.” She urges, and I nod and allow the tears to come. She gives my leg a pat and then checks her mirrors and begins to drive. The streets are deserted, illuminated by street lamps and the advertising banners on the sides of the road that promote medications I should ask my doctor for, insurance, and a nearby water park. The medication adverts still catch my eye, even after decades in the USA. It’s illegal to advertise medication like that in the UK, where you trust your doctor to prescribe whatever’s necessary. The US system has amused me ever since; the idea that I might go into my surgery and challenge a qualified doctor’s opinion of medicine based on a 15-second ad I’ve seen.

  I realise that the billboards have distracted me and my tears have stopped. My mind flashes back to Sheriff Morton, lying motionless in the hospital bed, or slumped bloodied in his office.

  “Your mind’s whirring.” Violet says. “I can practically hear it.”

  “I’m so close to figuring it all out.” I say. “I know it.”

  “What isn’t adding up?”

  “Well.” I begin. “The main suspect is Lovey Lovegoode, but something about it just doesn’t make sense. It seems too obvious. The weapon’s his, he wanted the journal, he has no alibi.”

  “Innocent people don’t tend to have alibis.” She says with a wink. “Only a guilty person creates one.”

  A shiver runs over me at her words, just as we pull up outside my house.

  “Thanks Violet.” I say as I climb out. The air’s grown chilly.

  She shrugs off the thanks and speeds off down the road.

  “Wake up!” I call as I run through the house towards the attic.

  Atticus is sprawled across the furniture, fast asleep, but Sage is shaking the sleep away by the time I burst into the room, and Patton looks wide awake.

  “How is he?” Patton asks.

  “He’s stable.” I say. “I think he’s going to be okay. Listen to me, I think we’re wrong about Lovey.”

  “Huh?” Sage asks. “All the evidence points to him.”

  “Exactly.” I nod. “Why would he kill someone with such a distinctive weapon, and right at the time he’d announced he’d visit her?”

  “People do crazy things.” Sage says with a shrug.

  “It doesn’t add up.” I say. “I’m going over there, I want to talk to him.”

  “I’ll come.” Patton says, getting up.

  “No, I need to do this on my own.”

  Lovey’s home is in darkness, just like the rest of the street. I knock on the door lightly and wait, standing on his cramped veranda. It takes several minutes before a light switches on, and I’m glad of the cardigan I grabbed from home before setting off.

  “Hello?” He calls from inside.

  “It’s Connie Winters, I need to talk to you.”

  He unlocks the door but instead of letting me in, he comes out. He wipes his eyes and takes a seat on one of the steps up to the veranda. I stand for a moment and then sit down next to him, hearing the old wood creak under our combined weight.

  “Sheriff Morton was shot today.” I say.

  Lovey Lovegoode takes a sharp breath inward. “Is he -?”

  “He’s alive. He’s going to be fine.” I say, then fix my gaze on him. “Look, I know that you know more than you’re admitting. I don’t think you killed Emelza. But things are getting out of hand, you have to come forward with what you know.”

  Lovey sighs, links his big fleshy hands together, cracks his knuckles. “I went over to her waggon and there was nobody there. I thought I’d have a look around, for the journal. I know it was wrong but I just wanted to see it. I
promise I wouldn’t have taken it. I looked everywhere in the living area, and then I moved into the bedroom and realised I wasn’t alone. She was already dead. I saw her, lying there, and I screamed like a girl. I panicked and I ran.”

  “And you didn’t call the police?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, the shame heavy on his shoulders. “I knew I would be such an obvious suspect. I’d said I was going to see her that night, I obviously had an interest in the journal.”

  “But she was killed with your dagger, Lovey.”

  “I didn’t know that, I swear. I didn’t stick around to look at the details. I saw her, I screamed, I ran.”

  “But you went back. You were seen, back there.” I explain.

  He nods. “I needed to get rid of my fingerprints.”

  “You know all this doesn’t look good for you?”

  He lets out a small, terrified laugh. “Of course I know. I’ve been waiting for the police to come and arrest me. I don’t understand why it hasn’t already happened. He even saw me that night, you know, the Sheriff?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Walking back towards town, straight after finding her. I’d stopped running then because I knew that would look more suspicious! Can you believe how quick your mind starts to think in such ways?! And I passed him, on the street. He was distracted, on his phone.”

  “His baby was in hospital.” I say.

  “Makes sense.” Lovey says. “He clearly had a lot on his mind. But he saw me, he waved and I waved back.”

  “Hold on.” I say, the memory of neat purple writing in an office of chaos coming back to me. “His baby was in hospital.”

  “You just said that.” Lovey says.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t connect the two.” I say. “Lovey, I know it wasn’t you, and I’m going to help you. But I need you to help me first, okay? I’ve got the journal, it’s at my house. Can you make sure everyone in the town knows that tomorrow?”

  “Well, sure, I guess.” He says, and I see him fight the urge to ask about what the journal says, how authentic it is, how valuable it may be.

  “Lovey, do you know much about the Blackbottom family tree?” I ask, the police officer’s words coming back to me.

  “I do, as a matter of fact. Not strictly my area, but Lavinia paid me a silly amount of money a few years ago to trace her roots.”

  “What came up?”

  “Well, she was only interested in showing the direct line between her and the original Lavinia Blackbottom. It was important to her to prove that she was the one true descendant. I did the research and then she got someone to paint a huge family tree for her. I suspect it’s still hanging up in her house.”

  “So, it was pretty straightforward?” I ask, disappointed.

  He laughs. “Not at all. Lavinia made sure it looks straightforward on paper, though. It’s the most edited family tree you can imagine.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, the first Lavinia had two children; Lavinia and Lavonia. Lavinia had a daughter, Lavinia, and Lavonia had a son, Edward. That Lavinia gave birth to the current Lavinia, and Edward married and had a child. Now, the side of the family comprised of the Lavinias was social climbers, desperately clinging to the Blackbottom name despite marriage. The side of the family beginning with Lavonia was much more authentic, in reality, to the family’s roots. They stayed true to their ancestors' way of life, which the Lavinia line was eager to move away from. The two sides quarreled something awful, before eventually denying each other’s very existence. Lavinia’s family tree makes no reference to them.”

  “But why would she want to delete them? She’s always said there’s no family wealth she’s inherited, it’s not like she’d have to share.”

  “Oh, no, she’s doing fine thanks to the gentleman in the castle.” Lovey says with a hearty laugh.

  “Finian?”

  Lovey nods. “She’s something of an entertainment to him.”

  “You know him?” I ask.

  “Very well.” He nods. “He’s one of my most frequent buyers. More money than sense, really, the prices he’ll pay. His money’s endless, and he likes the world to know it.”

  “Why does he support Lavinia? Are they in a relationship?” I ask, involuntarily thinking of the naked painting hanging above Finian’s fireplace.

  “Nah.” Lovey says. “They’re both in love with themselves too much. It’s just another way for Finian to show how darn rich he is.”

  “Then why the need for her to hide half of her family?”

  Lovey sighs. “Because the other half, the true Blackbottoms if you ask me, have kept their gypsy roots.”

  “So the original women were gypsies!” I exclaim. “I knew it!”

  “Oh yes.” Lovey says. “And as I said, the lineage went as follows; Lavinia having Lavonia. Lavonia marrying and having Edward. As I said, Edward married - his bride was Elsa. Their daughter was given the closest mix of their names that they could think of.”

  I gasp, the pieces falling into place. “Emelza!”

  He nods. “Emelza Shabley.”

  “Lavinia knew?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And that’s how Emelza ended up with the journal?”

  “It was passed down. Lavinia the first no doubt kept it and handed it down generation by generation, and the fact that it ended up with Emelza and not our Lavinia is, I think, a clear indication of who Lavinia the first believed to be the true Blackbottoms.”

  “That’s amazing.” I say, my whole body tingling with the drama of it. One side of the family eager to continue the family’s traveller traditions, the other side desperate to move as far away from them as possible. “Who says history’s dull?”

  Lovey smiles at me, and a light flicks on in the house behind us. I turn, to see the front door open. There, dressed in an oversized shirt that skims the top of her thighs, stands Lovell. She blushes when she sees me.

  “It gets lonely in the mountains some times.” She admits, with a shy smile.

  “I’ll leave you two to it.” I say, and clamber up to my feet as quick as I can.

  By the time I return home, the sun is rising and I feel wide awake, despite the fact that I’ve had no sleep at all. The tiredness will hit me, I know, but right now, I need to remain alert.

  I tap my phone and see that I have three messages.

  One from Adele saying I won’t be needed to mind the babies today. Taylor’s shooting is the final straw. She’s packing and will leave town tomorrow with the babies.

  I’d completely forgotten my rash offer to look after the babies, and I breathe a sigh of relief, although I’m troubled by her decision to leave.

  The second is from Violet asking how I am.

  The third is from an unknown number.

  I know that you have my journal. Leave it at Emelza’s waggon by noon or I will have to take matters into my own hands.

  I shudder as I read the message a second, then third time.

  Then I pick up the house phone and dial Adele’s number. She answers instantly, and I immediately feel guilty. She must be expecting any call to be the hospital.

  “It’s me, sorry.” I say.

  Silence.

  “It’s Connie. Are you there, Adele?”

  “Sorry.” Comes the whisper of a reply. “I was just heading out to the hospital.”

  “Sorry, I just wanted to see if you’d heard anything overnight?”

  “No.” She replies. “I’ll try and update you later. I’ve got to go.”

  “Sure.” I say, but she’s already hung up and my word is lost. I want to ask about the legal document she’s signed forbidding her to take the babies without Taylor’s consent. I want to ask her to stay. I want to ask a million things, but instead I listen to the dial tone and feel utterly alone.

  I pad across into the kitchen and see the journal on the side, pick it up, and prepare myself for a showdown I don’t feel at all ready for.

  19

&n
bsp; Sage

  She’s gazing at the journal, bugging out the way I used to look at the centre-page posters in my Just Seventeen magazines. Oh, the cute boy band stars were my absolute weakness in life. Those and the cheap, nasty cans of fizzy pop that the Asian man sold in the corner shop.

  On the rare Saturdays that our mother remembered we got pocket money - or had enough money to keep up the commitment - I’d spent mine within twenty minutes. A quick dash down to the newsagent for my magazine, a can of pop, and maybe a 10p mix, and I was penniless again for whoever knew how long. It was worth it, though. My God, it was worth it.

  So, where was I? I get the idea of a paper product causing a female to go a little weak at the knees, a little hypnotised, a little spaced out… but, let’s be honest, only if the paper is showing a picture of a cute, preferably half-naked, guy.

  Fusty old journals? Ain’t nobody spacing out about that stuff.

  So I know right away something’s wrong.

  The problem with Connie, though? She’s a problem solver. A comforter. She mothers people like you wouldn’t believe. It’s like her unfertilised eggs are crying out for a baby, and we all know that’s not gonna happen. So solving everyone else’s problems - whether they want her to or not - is the next best thing.

  That’s why I hang back, just out of her line of sight, and watch her.

  I could burst in and demand to know what’s going on, but she’d come up with some excuse. Turn the conversation around to me, and we all know I’d only be too happy to let her.

  She looks tired, which isn’t surprising since she’s had, like, zero sleep, and she’s nursing the biggest mug of coffee the kitchen has to offer. It’s a Screamin’ Beans original, one from the only run of mugs Ellie ever did. They sold ridiculously well, but she couldn’t be bothered with the ordering, the storing, and the complaints people came up with afterward. One woman who’d bought the espresso cup for her husband actually complained a year after because the cup had broke when her husband had dropped it on their patio. People are crazy. Connie looks after hers, and it’s reserved for the days when her very survival depends on caffeine, and lots of it.