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

by Mona Marple

  “Now, I really must be off. Brad’s having a wonderful dinner party and I can’t have my call interrupt that. I’d be there, of course, if I wasn’t stuck doing this,” Lionel mutters, loud enough for his voice to carry throughout the hall. His phone rings then and he looks at the screen and lets out a small laugh but doesn’t answer it. “Angelina! Now, this will be an awkward conversation. I’ll let it go to voicemail, I reckon. Always hard choosing a side. Of course, she’ll expect me to be there tonight. Probably calling for the gossip. What an awful position to be in. I’ll call her back, of course. Well, lovies, tomorrow will be what it will be. Hopefully you get struck down by an awful stomach bug and have to cry off, Antoinette. And if our good luck extends so far, hopefully it will extend to your daughter. It’s clear she’s inherited every ounce of your lack of talent! A humble stage director can dream.”

  I clamp my mouth shut so that I can’t laugh at his dramatics. Antoinette storms off stage and Nick saunters across the stage and down the aisle, giving her a wide berth.

  “I understand if you don’t want to come,” Nick says as he approaches me.

  “Are you kidding? I think this will be the highlight of my year. I’m not missing it for the world,” I reply.

  “Come on then, let’s get the tickets,” Nick says. We return to the foyer and Nick dives behind the ticket booth and tears off a strip of four tickets.

  “How much?”

  “Oh, they’re on me. You heard Lionel, I’m the star of the show. He won’t begrudge me a few tickets,” Nick says with a wink.

  “He sure knows how to name drop,” I say. “Does he really know all of those celebs?”

  “He’s been an extra in two TV shows, I’m pretty sure you know more celebrities than he does,” Nick explains.

  I shake her head. “He was brutal towards that woman with the bun.”

  “Not really,” Nick says. “He’s the same with everyone. The first week he met me he tore a strip off me for turning up black.”

  “Turning up black?” I exclaim.

  “Yep,” Nick says. “He’d heard people recommend me but he’d never seen a picture of me. So he asks me to come in, and I do, and you’d think I’d blacked my face to offend him. Funny, really, everyone who recommended me said I was a great Santa, nobody said I was a great black Santa.”

  “He sounds like a real delight,” I say.

  “Too many egos end up in am-dram, my dear. Too many egos.”

  3

  Sage

  “Have you told him yet?” Connie hisses as I pass her in the kitchen. I check that Patton, my spirit boyfriend and former Sheriff of Mystic Springs, isn’t within earshot.

  “No!” I exclaim. “We’re all getting ready for a nice night out and oh, by the way honey, my husband’s in town. Not too keen to have that conversation for some reason.”

  “You’ve got to tell him,” Connie says. She’s preparing pre-drinks and the air is rich with the scent of spice and berries from the mulled wine she’s heating on the stove. There isn’t that much food or drink I miss, surprisingly, but mulled wine takes me back to December evenings as a young girl. Everyone young and old would come out to sing carols in the village square and there’d be mulled wine for all. Looking back, it was probably warm blackcurrant squash, but at the time there was nothing more sophisticated than letting that polystyrene cup warm my hands like the adults did.

  “I will, but you know Bernard, he won’t be any bother,” I whisper. In all of our marriage, my husband never once raised his voice at me. He didn’t compliment me much either, and he certainly didn’t think domestic life was his concern, so let’s not pretend he was perfect. But he’s not a trouble causer.

  “He’s been dead a long time, Sage. You’ve no idea what he’s like nowadays,” Connie warns. “I saw it all the time when I was doing more medium work. Grieving people turn up and think the spirit they’re calling won’t have changed a bit. Death does strange things to people.”

  “Hmm,” I murmur. I don’t want to accept that she’s on to something, but even just turning up in town is out-of-character for the Bernard I knew.

  “What’s he here for, anyway?” Connie asks.

  “I don’t really know,” I admit. Once Connie had gone indoors the day before, Bernard had shuffled around a little, looking at his feet, making small talk. As if we were old buddies who’d ran into each other. No big deal. The whole thing was definitely odd.

  Connie furrows her brow as she serves a generous ladle of mulled wine into two mugs. I float across to her and inhale the liquid deeply.

  “Like it?” Connie asks with a smile.

  “Takes me back to my misspent youth,” I joke. She rolls her eyes.

  “It’s vital that you get that first account down as soon as possible! I don’t know what Gunther thinks he’s doing,” Patton’s voice comes from the hall. I let out a small laugh. Trust the men to be talking shop. Law-enforcement shop. At least they’re getting along now. When Taylor Morton first arrived in town as the first Sheriff the town had had since Patton’s untimely death, the pair had been awfully wary of each other. Like wild animals sizing each other up before a fight. Embarrassing really, when they’ve got so much in common.

  “This smells good!” Taylor says, as the two men appear. Connie hands Taylor his drink and they chink mugs, then he plants a kiss on her cheek.

  “What were you two whispering about in here, anyway?” Patton asks as he drapes an arm around me. I stiffen slightly and hope he doesn’t notice.

  “We were just trying to get away from you two, to be honest,” Connie says. “All work and no play makes you Sheriffs dull boys, you know.”

  “Who’s Gunther, anyway?” I ask. Patton seems to be moaning about the mystery man in every conversation lately.

  “He’s one of the lads at the station,” Taylor explains as he pushes his dark-framed glasses up his nose and sits at one of the high stools at the kitchen bar.

  “A cop?”

  Patton nods. “He’s got some very strange views.”

  “Won’t work til he’s had breakfast at his desk,” Taylor says.

  “Why did you ask?” Connie teases me. “They’re back on about it now. Come on, we’d better get going.”

  The living amongst our foursome pull on scarves and heavy coats, while Patton and I float nearby and wait. An awkward silence falls. The less I talk to him, the less I’m deliberately withholding the fact that my husband is here in town, right?

  “Let’s go,” Connie instructs, and we file out of the house obediently. We never double-dated when we were both alive. Mainly because Connie never dated. I have to admit, the idea of us both settling down with guys who get on with each other is pretty exciting to me. I’m clearly getting less cool in my afterlife.

  A steady stream of people are all walking in the direction of the town hall, and we slot into place behind a couple with six noisy children, all dressed as tiny Santas. Six children. Can you even imagine?

  There’s a hum of excitement that comes when people are joined together, all focused on going to the same place, all high with anticipation for the magic of Christmas. A smile finds my lips and Patton takes my ghostly hand in his.

  An elderly man sits out on his veranda as we pass, a copy of the newspaper spread across his lap, reading by the fairy lights that twinkle across his hanging chair as if there especially to provide a reading light. He looks up at the sound of the commotion and raises a liver-spotted hand in a wave. I return the gesture, swept away with the magic of the evening.

  The noise reaches us before the town hall comes into view.

  “What do we want? Equality! When do we want it? Now!”

  “Is this part of the performance?” I ask Connie. She shrugs. “Well, you never know with that friend of yours.”

  “He didn’t mention anything like this,” she murmurs.

  We round the corner and see a small crowd, headed by a spirit I’ve seen around town. He’s young, one of those where you look at
him and wince because nobody should die that young, but other than his age he’s never made much of an impression on me.

  “What do we want? Equality! When do we want it? Now!” he chants. A few others, spirits and living, join in the chorus in a confused way, as if they share my uncertainty about whether the protest is part of the show. A hand-painted sign lies near the spirit’s feet.

  EQUAL RIGHTS TO THE ARTS: SPIRITS ARE PEOPLE TOO!!!!!!!

  “He likes an exclamation mark,” Connie whispers to me with a mischievous wink.

  “Anyone know who he is?” I ask.

  “I do. Poor kid. Can’t think of his name,” Taylor says. A few people are glancing at him, wanting him to set the tone for how they should react to the protest. Taylor’s dressed casually, though, and he seems in no rush to turn the evening into a work outing.

  “Isn’t he the Matu kid?” Patton asks. They’re calling him kid but he’s definitely an adult. A young one sure, probably early twenties.

  “That’s it! Dimitri. He’s part of the theatre club, I’m sure this is all part of the show. You know what Lionel Wright’s like,” Taylor says.

  “Probably arranged it to get his name in next week’s newspaper,” I say with an eye roll.

  Dimitri Matu continues his chants, then clears his throat and addresses the queue of people waiting to enter the town hall. “This show is actively discriminating against spirits. I’m going to ask anyone who is a friend or supporter of the spirit world to join me in boycotting this unfair, prejudicial and divisive performance.”

  Nobody responds.

  “Lionel Wright prevented me fair access to tonight’s show, despite my obvious talent. He is single-handedly making it impossible for spirits to access the arts. This is a flagrant abuse of power and cannot be allowed to continue!”

  Still nobody responds.

  “Should you do something?” Connie whispers to Taylor. He groans.

  “Dimitri, is this part of the show?” Taylor asks, taking a step forward so he’s slightly separate from the line.

  “And Sheriff Morton has wisely taken the side of the spirits, thank you Sheriff. Please join him. Come forward if you want to be on the right side. History will judge your actions tonight. Spirits only want equality.”

  “He’s such a handsome young man,” I say. “And he sounds sincere. If this is part of the show, he’s doing well.”

  The town hall door bursts open then, and Lionel Wright glares in Dimitri’s direction. Lionel wears a cream suit with a boater hat and his trademark designer striped scarf. His cheeks are so red they’re almost purple.

  “Sheriff, thank goodness. Move him on, please. He’s interfering with my show,” Lionel blusters as he stalks across the gravel path towards Taylor.

  “Is this all part of the show, Lionel?” Taylor asks.

  “Absolutely not! He auditioned for a part and frankly his acting was diabolical. He should be turning in his own grave it was so bad. I’ve seen some pathetic actors in my time but this was a whole other level. Of course he didn’t get a part! If you’re completely untalented, you won’t get a part, whether you’re alive or dead. That is equality, my dear,” Lionel rants. “Now, please, you must move him along. He cannot be permitted to disrupt this evening.”

  “He’s got a right to peaceful protest,” Taylor says with a shrug. He eyes Dimitri. “You armed?”

  “No sir,” Dimitri says.

  “I can’t make him leave, as long as he doesn’t become threatening or violent. He can stay here and do his chant all night if he wants,” Taylor says. Lionel’s face is now a deep shade of purple. A bizarre contrast to his pale suit.

  “I’ll take this over your head, so I will!” Lionel exclaims, furious.

  “Feel free,” Taylor says. He stuffs his hands in his trouser pockets and walks away from Lionel and back to us. Connie squeezes his hand.

  Lionel glares at Taylor for a few more moments, then turns on his heel and flounces back into the town hall, closing the door behind him. The crowd begin to mumble. The show is due to begin in two minutes; the doors should be open by now. We should all be sitting in the warmth of the building, not standing out here where teeth are starting to chatter.

  Finally the door opens, and a timid woman who trembles either with nerves or cold appears. No sooner has she appeared and she retreats back inside and the crowd follow her, Christmas spirit well and truly gone as they try to barge in out of the cold as quick as they can.

  “That’s Tabitha,” Connie whispers, “she’s in the show.”

  I raise an eyebrow. She doesn’t look like a starlet.

  By the time we’ve handed in our tickets and Tabitha’s given them a hardly-worthwhile glance, the hall is packed and we have no choice but to sit towards the back.

  Taylor slides in the row first, then Connie, me, and Patton in the aisle chair. Nobody seems to be removing their outer layers, despite the warmth of the room. They’ll be melting soon. Take off your coat or you won’t feel the benefit, I remember my mum saying to me whenever we found the shelter of a warm space on a cold day.

  “So, you seem quiet?” Patton whispers. I look at him and force a reassuring smile as his eyes search my face. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” I say, then turn my attention towards the stage as if this performance will be the highlight of my year. The set is a child’s bedroom. A bed draped with pink cushions and a unicorn duvet takes centre stage, and the false window at the back of the stage shows a view of London. Connie said the lead is English. I wonder if she got the role because of the setting or if the setting was changed to accommodate her accent.

  A Christmas tree stands in the far corner of the stage, old-fashioned baubles arranged with great care to ensure that they look haphazard.

  “Sure?” Patton asks, and it takes me a moment to realise what he means.

  “Honestly, I’m fine,” I say. My stomach churns. I wish I’d just told him right away that Bernard had turned up. The longer I leave it, the bigger a deal it will be. I know that. But I can’t find the words to tell him my husband is here for some unknown reason.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Lionel Wright calls as he appears on stage, to my relief. Patton can’t keep talking to me now. “Thank you for joining us this evening and supporting your local community arts. The role of the arts is, quite simply, vital for a community and for the world. You are all doing good by being here tonight. And don’t we have a show for you all! I developed this performance with none other than Kevin Costner, who frankly was astounded that a small town like Mystic Springs was the focus of my artistic genius. As I told him and Pharrell one day last week over lunch, even the humblest of places and the most pathetic of people deserve art. And here we are, delivering art to you tonight.”

  “Wow,” Connie says. “This guy takes no prisoners.”

  “We begin in London, you’ll see the beautiful view from the window, designed and painted by me with the guidance of Kate Moss. And because we can’t expect too much from amateurs, all actors tonight have characters who bear their own names. So we begin with Antoinette, the mother. Her child, Jessie, is doubting Santa’s existence.”

  “Ugh, what a cliché,” I moan. “Sounds like every other Christmas show.”

  “Well, we can’t expect much from the amateurs, remember,” Connie says as she stifles a giggle.

  Antoinette appears on stage then, a girl of around six by her side. The girl is in flannel pyjamas and walks across and climbs into the bed. Antoinette manages to follow her across to the bed and give her a goodnight kiss, all while never taking her eyes off the audience.

  “When’s Nick coming on?” I ask. He’s bound to be the only good part of this disaster.

  “Mama, is Santa truly real?” the girl asks.

  Antoinette gasps and covers her mouth with her right hand, long slender fingers spider across her face. It’s painful to watch. “My sweet, dear Jessie. Of course Santa is real and if you go to sleep now he will come tonight.”


  “But how do I know it’s really him?” Jessie asks, wide-eyed. She’s much more convincing. I hope she has the bigger role but fear I know how this is going to play out.

  “Hush now, child,” Antoinette says with as much warmth as a chilled can of root beer. The girl lets out a yawn and then closes her eyes. The lights over the bedroom part of the stage go off, and a spotlight focuses on Antoinette. “Whatever can I do? My daughter is realising that Santa is a mere myth. Perhaps she is old enough to know the truth. Maybe I should wake her and confirm her fears.”

  “Brutal,” Connie murmurs at the side of me.

  “And we gave up an evening playing cards to watch this?” Patton asks me. I bite my lip to hold back the laugh.

  The play continues, seeming endless and mainly involving monologues for Antoinette to read aloud. She seems happy enough with this but I have trouble staying awake. At one point, the mousy woman from the ticket booth appears, dressed in rags and an apron; the maid, apparently.

  “You look awfully down in the dumps,” she says. Antoinette is, by this point, sitting at a table, reminiscing about her Christmases past.

  “Little Jessie no longer believes,” Antoinette says. I feel sorry for little Jessie who’s spent over an hour lying still in the bed. Maybe she really is asleep. I hope so or she must be bored stiff.

  “Believes in what, love?” Tabitha asks. It’s hard to tell if she’s got any acting talent. It could just be Antoinette’s appalling performance making her appear to have some flair for performing.

  “In Santa!” Antoinette exclaims, then buries her head in her hands. She begins a loud howling cry. Dear Lord have mercy.

  Lionel Wright appears on stage again, as he has done at several points to act as narrator. It’s an entirely unnecessary role. The story of the show is easy to follow, it’s just boring. What it needs is some conflict. A fight, a secret, some kind of mystery. A secret like a husband turning up out of the blue? My stomach flips at this involuntary thought. Maybe it’s me, I wonder. I never did like a quiet life. Maybe this is what other people enjoy and I’m at fault for always needing drama. I try to settle down and force myself to enjoy the performance – there can’t be long left, surely.