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

by Mona Marple

  We walk back through the streets, saying Happy Holidays to everyone we pass in that odd way that feels obligatory as soon as you’ve entered December. There’s a feeling of magic in the air, the sense that everyone in Mystic Springs is united by the same thing: the anticipation of the Christmas that is approaching. In the distance and on the other side of the road, Ethel’s ghostly form appears, a buggy in front of her.

  Spirits have to relearn the ability to touch physical objects, and the fact that tiny Ethel has the strength to push a double pushchair gives a clue as to how long she’s been dead. Decades of practice have given her that strength. No wonder her parenting ideas are out of vogue.

  “Want to say hi?” I ask.

  “Sure,” Connie says lightly, and we cross the street. Ethel Grubb is as dowdy as they come, all flat shoes and stockinged legs. Her tweed jacket is covered with brooches and pins.

  “Connie,” she greets with a submissive bow of her head. Connie may not consider herself to be mistress of Taylor’s house, but Ethel clearly does. Connie peers into the pushchair. Both babies are asleep, Scarlett sucking on a pacifier, Axel’s mouth wide open and revealing the first flash of a tiny white tooth. As Connie said, Ethel’s definitely worked wonders on their sleeping habits. “We’re just taking a stroll. The fresh air is good for them.”

  “Of course,” Connie says. She reaches in the pushchair and strokes the cheek of each baby with her index finger. I look away.

  “Sage,” Ethel greets.

  “Hello,” I reply.

  “Will you be joining us for dinner?” Ethel asks, carefully directing the question so that it includes me, even though she knows I can’t eat any more than she can. “I was thinking of preparing stew.”

  “Oh no, no, I’ve got some things to do at home. But thank you,” Connie says, and on we go.

  “That was a narrow escape,” I say when we’re out of earshot. “I still have nightmares about being forced to eat our mum’s stew.”

  “Me too,” Connie confides as we approach her house. Our house, really, since I’ve been living there for two decades. “Who’s that?”

  There’s a figure on the veranda, facing away from us.

  “Mailman?” I suggest. I can’t imagine who else it could be, but as we draw closer I see that the figure is a spirit, not a living person. His form floats slightly above the ground, and the edges of his body have a slight glow, as if his aura is attempting to escape.

  As we approach, the apparition comes into focus, the lines of his denim jacket hazy as he blends into the world around him. He has always been instantly forgettable. The kind of man who would be witnessed committing a crime and who each witness would struggle to describe. Beige had always been the best way in Connie’s opinion, and I had come around to that thinking eventually. Inoffensive, but unremarkable.

  I struggle for a moment to get my breath as I realise that I can remember this forgettable man. “Bernard?”

  He gives me the insipid smile I’ve always hated. The smile that told me years ago he was little better than a robot. There was no fire hiding in his belly, no passion in his loins.

  I blink. “What are you doing here, Bernie?”

  2

  Connie

  I need to hand it to the guy. Bernard Shaw has done in death what he never managed to do while alive – surprise me.

  I give him a once-over and then leave him and Sage out there on the veranda. Whatever my brother-in-law is doing in town, I’ll hear about it later.

  It’s just a week to Christmas Day and I’m not ready at all. I’m somewhat out of practice at having to buy gifts, plan outfits to wear and decide when to see people. These new responsibilities have shown me just how much I’ve been living in the world of the spirits for years, despite being very much alive. My Christmases have generally been spent around the house with Sage, who has no need to receive gifts and no money to buy any. I put up the tree, because it would be an abomination not to, and I watch festive films and even cook a little Christmas dinner that I normally eat alone. It’s been nice to observe the frantic energy that overtakes other people in the run up to the big day, while I look forward to the relative calm the holiday entails.

  But this year? This year I have a partner (I can’t bring myself to say boyfriend at my age. It makes me feel like one of those celebrities who keeps on dating in spite of her advancing years), and he has two babies. I have to buy gifts for them, and not just gifts, but gifts that signify an appropriate level of care towards them. I love Taylor, really I do, and those babies are so adorable and so deserving of a mother’s love I could just steal them away in the night given half a chance, but this is our first Christmas together. I can’t assume that Taylor’s going to put our joint names on the gifts for the babies. Actually, I guess he’ll say they’re all from Santa. But still. I need to go to my own trouble to pick out perfect gifts – just not too much trouble to pick out gifts that are too perfect. That might look a little too needy. A little too committed. I think all of this as I dust the surfaces in the living room, swirling the rag in big circular motions until they gleam.

  If you’re thinking I should have already bought said presents, you’re one million percent right. In my defence, I have been thinking about it – for weeks. And now I’ve missed the postage dates for anything ordered online to get here, leaving me with just a few days and only Mystic Springs’ selection of shops. I sigh as I consider the mess I’ve got myself into. It’s going to look thoughtless, when Taylor opens the gifts, and sees the date on the receipts that I always include with a gift. He’ll think they’ve been an afterthought when the exact opposite is true. Maybe I could have a last-minute religious conversion. Is there a faith that doesn’t celebrate Christmas? It seems more and more that everyone who likes gifts and good food celebrates Christmas. Not that I’m criticising anyone. I can’t pretend to mark the occasion for religious reasons myself.

  A knock on the door jars me out of the maze of thoughts. I put the dusting rag down on the coffee table and open the door, expecting carol singers.

  “Merry Christmas!” the booming voice comes, and my face contorts into a grin.

  “Nick!” I exclaim, pulling the man in for a hug. He smells of cinnamon and whisky, and I could just drink him in. I step back and do exactly that. “It’s so good to see you! What are you doing here? Come in!”

  Nick follows me inside and when I turn back to him, he’s looking me up and down in the obvious way that a man can only get away with when he’s your husband or your gay best friend. “Girl, look at you! You lookin’ fly!”

  “For a white guy?” I tease, thinking I’ve heard the rhyme in a song before.

  Nick shakes his head, the white of his teeth contrasting with his smooth, dark skin. He could easily be a model, except standing still and posing would bore him senseless. “Connie, I mean it, you’re looking so great.”

  “How come you only seem to turn up at Christmas?” I tease, then immediately regret the words. I love Nick’s visits, and I’d welcome him at any time of year. He has a house across town but it’s empty for much of the year as he travels around doing whatever Nick does to stay busy.

  “Tell me about it! It seems that way, huh? I’m fresh off the plane from Mexico,” Nick says, adopting an accent and pronouncing the place as may-hee-co. He walks into the kitchen and flicks the kettle on, gets two mugs out of the cupboard, and adds coffee to mine without having to ask what I’d like. “This place can’t get enough of ole Santa Nick.”

  “You’re not at Abe’s this year,” I say. Nick went through a spell of being Santa at the town’s department store, and I was even Mrs Claus one disastrous year, but he hasn’t done that for years. I suspect the budget was slashed. The new Santa who rocks up each year is much less enthusiastic in his portrayal than Nick was, and the costume is decidedly low-rent.

  “No, no. It’s the Christmas play. Show’s tomorrow. You should come,” Nick encourages as he sets a steaming mug of coffee in front of me. He dips
a fruit tea bag into his own mug of hot water, up-down-up-down, and then discards the bag in the trash. I only keep the tea bags in for his visits. I’d rather drink decaf than those horrors.

  I pull a face. “I don’t know if I can. I’ve got so much to do.”

  “Like what?” Nick asks, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

  “Well,” I say with a long inhale, “I’m kinda seeing someone this year.”

  “Hot darn! You need to tell me everything!”

  “So, his name is Taylor. He’s really sweet and kind and…”

  “Taylor Morton? Sheriff Taylor Morton? With those babies? That who you’re dating?” Nick asks, mouth open wide.

  I nod, unsure what reaction to expect from Nick. He knows me well enough to be brutally honest. If he doesn’t approve, I’m about to find out.

  “darn, he’s kinda hot with those glasses going on,” Nick admits with a laugh. “You’re a sly fox, Connie.”

  The door opens then and Sage floats in, shrugs towards me and disappears upstairs. There’s no sign of Bernard.

  “She ok?” Nick asks, watching as Sage disappears from view.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “Her husband just showed up.”

  “Ain’t he dead?”

  “Yep,” I confirm. “And they’ve left each other alone ever since he died.”

  “Hmm. You girls got some stuff going on this year,” Nick ponders.

  “I wish there was some way spirits could get divorced,” I say, my tone almost inaudible. Sage and Bernard had worked things out amicably when he had passed. A single meeting between them post-death had been enough for them to agree to go their separate ways, but there was no way for them to end the legal contract of their marriage. And there was no reason for Bernard to turn up. Not that I can imagine, anyway.

  “So, the show? You know I can’t perform without my best friend in the audience,” Nick urges. He even bats his eyelids a little. He’s the most unexpected Santa you could possibly imagine, but the second he puts on that costume – a costume that is so well-made and exactly what the real Santa would wear, in my opinion, that it must have been tailor made to Nick’s exacting standards – he transforms into Father Christmas.

  “I don’t think you’ve ever had trouble performing, Nick,” I say with an eye roll. The man was born for applause and audience. “But, yes, I’d love to.”

  “I can get four tickets, that gonna be okay? You and that hunk of a man, plus the babies?” Nick wiggles his eyebrows and the image of the four of us, like a real family, pops into my mind. I feel my chest tighten.

  “I’ll probably see if Taylor wants a grown-up night. Leave the babies with the nanny. He hired one, Taylor did. Maybe Sage could come, with a plus one?” I suggest. The image of that particular foursome is much more palatable to me.

  “Whatever,” Nick says with a shrug. “We’ll need to pick them up, fancy a walk?”

  I nod. I do indeed fancy a walk. Maybe I can pick Nick’s brain about gift ideas, for Taylor at least.

  The temperature has dropped and I shiver as we walk briskly across town towards the town hall. The sky is a blend of dusky pinks and people’s Christmas lights are switching on for the evening; the transformation from day to night is happening right in front of our eyes as we walk.

  “I don’t understand decorating the outside of your house,” Nick says.

  “Really? I always thought you’d love that kind of thing.”

  “It seems such a waste. So you sit inside your house all night and don’t get to see the decorations. What you should really do, is put your decorations up on the house across the street and pay their electric bill. That way you can sit in your house and get to see them.”

  I let out a laugh. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “Me and you, we’re too miserly to decorate anyway.”

  “Hey! I’m not miserly,” I argues, although his word hits a nerve. My house is one of the only ones on the street that features no outside decorations. Maybe next year I could put a few up. Fairy lights across the veranda wouldn’t hurt.

  Nick winks at me and pulls open the door of the town hall. The car park’s full and the warmth of the building wraps around us as we enter.

  “Must be a rehearsal,” Nick says with a shrug.

  I stifle a laugh. “Shouldn’t you be here, if it’s a rehearsal?”

  Nick winks. “Don’t think I got the memo. Come on, we’ll just grab the tickets and leave.”

  No such luck.

  “Nicholas? You’re late!” a small, mousy woman says as she scuttles into the entry foyer. Her voice is low and concerned, not scolding. “You’ll get in trouble. Come with me and I’ll sneak you in.”

  “Oh, Tabitha, you’re a doll,” Nick says, peering wide-eyed towards me. “Will you wait?”

  “Sure,” I say, not really feeling as though I have a choice. It’ll be nice to sit indoors for a while and get warm, though. I open the door into the main hall and slide into a seat on the back row. The stage is empty apart from one woman, tall and reed-thin, hair in a severe bun.

  “And stop!” A man calls, rising from a chair on the front row. I recognise him as the owner of the amateur dramatics group and theatre company. It seems that he has sufficient news to warrant his name and photograph being in the newspaper most weeks. Lionel Wright, a bit-part actor and legend-in-his-own-head. “This role isn’t right for you. I did say that weeks ago. It’s not going to work at all. Who else do we have available?”

  The woman on stage bristles, arms darting across her tiny middle. “You cannot be serious. The show is tomorrow, I’m fully rehearsed and ready. I was born for this role.”

  “Oh, Lord help us,” Lionel cries. “Who else do we have? Where’s that other woman?”

  “Lionel, we can’t make changes now,” the woman on stage insists. She’s upper-class, her voice plummy and English. “Give me constructive criticism and I’ll work on it. But this simply won’t do.”

  “It’s my name attached to this show, Antoinette. I can’t risk humiliation just to keep you happy. No expense has been spared to make this a fabulous performance. I’ve found the best Santa Claus in the country, have I not?”

  My chest swells with pride at the mention of Nick.

  “And where is he? So professional he can’t make it to rehearsal?” Antoinette asks.

  “He’s here, with me,” the woman from the foyer says, appearing on the side of the stage with Nick, who offers a small wave.

  “That’s who I meant. You, come forward? Name?”

  “Tabitha Reed,” the woman says, skulking towards the middle of the stage reluctantly. She appears even more tiny under the spotlights.

  “You’re going to be the lead,” Lionel announces. “You’re much more in tune with the common people. Let’s start this part again but with you as the lead.”

  “I… I…” Tabitha stutters as Antionette glowers at her across the stage.

  “Come on, come on. We have to be performance ready before we leave this building tonight and I can assure you I have better things to do than waste the whole evening with you. It’s imperative that I call Brad and wish him a happy birthday. Brad Pitt, you know. So, come on, let’s get cracking.”

  I see Nick roll his eyes and try to stifle a giggle. I always imagined amateur dramatics to be a fun hobby. How wrong I was, from the look of this.

  “I can’t do it,” Tabitha mutters, and backs away towards the side of the stage.

  “Of course she can’t. Let’s just forget this nonsense and move forward. I was made for the lead role,” Antoinette says.

  “You say that every year, and every year I’ve managed to avoid giving you the lead role,” Lionel says with a dramatic sigh.

  “Constructive criticism, Lionel?”

  “Fine. Your performance is, quite frankly, insipid and instantly forgettable. I’d give specifics but there are none. The whole of your performance is astonishingly weak. Usually, an actor will have a weak area but there will be things
they get right. With you, it’s a never-ending list of things that are plain wrong. I fear it would be better to cancel the performance than go through with this charade. I’ll be a laughing stock. I’m meeting Sylvester – you know he hates to be called Sly – for New Year and I can’t turn up knowing that the first thing he’ll ask is what I’ve been up to. He always asks that, you know. Incredibly interested in the community arts, he is. It’s awful, to give so much of yourself and have it repaid in this way. Can you at least try to sound like a normal person?”

  “This is my voice. Where I come from, normal people speak the Queen’s English,” Antoinette says. “It’s not my fault you have no sophistication.”

  I cringe at the argument and turn my attention to the hangnail on my thumb. I’d planned to visit the nail salon and have a manicure but when I’d walked in the door the day before, the pretty young staff had looked horrified at me for expecting there to be walk-in appointments the week before Christmas. Looks like I’m stuck with hangnails for now.

  “Let’s just finish up,” Antoinette urges.

  “There’s no point,” Lionel says with a flourish. He picks up his designer scarf, recognisable because of the distinctive striped pattern, and begins to wrap it around his neck. “We’re as ready as we’re ever going to be. It’s God awful, and I’ll be cringing the whole way through it. All I can pin a hope to is that Santa saves us all. Where is he?”

  Nick shows his face again from the side of the stage. He has more presence than the rest of the cast put together, that much is clear. Maybe Lionel’s right to pin his hopes on Nick and Nick alone.

  “You there. You can see what a horror the rest of this thing is. We’re going to have to save you to the end. It’s the only way people will stay in their seats and suffer the rest of the blasted thing. Arrive a little later if you wish. And remember that costume of yours, it’s going to be our Saving Grace.”

  “Sure,” Nick says.