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

by Mona Marple

  “I shut them up, of course. I had to.”

  “You killed Lionel because of his attack on you?”

  Antoinette lets out a laugh and moves her good hand to pick up a hairbrush, then begins brushing the hairpiece, smoothing out stray hairs and getting the fringe just right. “That little maggot could say anything he wanted about me. He questioned my daughter’s talent. That’s what did it.”

  “So you did it for Tallulah.”

  “I had to,” Antoinette says.

  “What did Tabitha do?” Sage asks.

  “Oh, that little nobody. She would have been fine if she’d just stopped interfering,” Antoinette says. She rises to her feet and unzips the evening gown, letting it drop to the floor, then steps out of it and begins to rifle through the pile of clothes. I see it the moment before she reaches for it; the heavy velvet material, the deep red tone. Nick’s Santa outfit. She slips into it and then sits back down.

  “How did she interfere?” I ask, swallowing my nerves.

  “She had to offer to help, didn’t she? Such a do-gooder she was. She saw me carrying bags into the house and insisted she help, and then she saw my hand. Saw the burns.”

  “So they are burns,” I say.

  “I couldn’t risk her telling anyone,” Antoinette says with a groan as she returns to the pile of clothes. As she moves the various costumes, I see that there’s something underneath them. A structure. A bed, is it?

  “Whose room is this?” I ask.

  “Oh,” Antoinette says with a chilling smile. “This is Tallulah’s room.”

  “And where is she?” Sage asks.

  “She’s at boarding school, of course. All the best parts are given out over winter break. Only a completely ungrateful fool would return home for Christmas, knowing how much their mother had sacrificed to give them such opportunities. Only a fool.” Antoinette says, a glazed expression crossing her face as she talks. “I feel close to her in here.”

  A soft groan comes then, from the pile of clothes, just as the front door is flung open.

  “Stay exactly where you are!” Taylor’s familiar voice rings out and I hear the thump of his boots on the stairs, but I don’t do as he asks. I dive across the room, tossing feather boas and leather jackets and mini skirts and tutus on to the floor, until the bed is revealed. The girl who lies there stares at me in terror, her skin grey and hair lank, and then reaches for me. Her bitten nails scrape across my skin as she grabs me.

  “Help me,” she pleads, as Taylor bursts into the room and restrains Antoinette.

  “You’re okay,” I whisper, keeping my gaze focused on hers. I see the stain of vomit on the pillow under her, smell the rancid stench that is her breath. I repeat my words endlessly, even when I hear the sirens of the ambulance outside, even as the paramedics tell me to give them space, even as I hear them mutter the words overdose and see the grim look they give each other as they carry Tallulah from the room on a stretcher. “You’re okay, you’re okay…”

  “So are you,” Sage whispers as she wraps her arms around me.

  “That girl didn’t overdose!” I cry through thick tears, when it’s just the two of us left. “Antoinette did that to her! She must have refused to return to school!”

  “I know,” Sage soothes as I’m lost in tears. I cry for Tallulah. But I cry for me too. I cry for the fact that Antoinette was blessed with a baby and I never was.

  **

  “Tallulah’s going to be okay,” Taylor tells me later, as I feel the weight of exhaustion fall over me. “You two found her just in time.”

  “And Antoinette?”

  “She’s confessed to it all. She seems to really believe she had no choice.”

  “Some people don’t deserve to be mothers,” I whisper, as sleep takes me.

  19

  Sage

  Christmas day at Connie’s is a quiet affair this year. We’re all wiped out after the emotional exhaustion of apprehending Antoinette and the news from the paramedics that Tallulah was just hours away from death. We’re heroes, it seems, and even heroes need a rest.

  The twins don’t know what to make of our Christmas tree, or the presents that sit underneath it. As every parent knows, babies like no gift more than an empty box and a piece of wrapping paper.

  Connie’s prepared a feast that smells incredible, and I manage to sit at the table while she and Taylor devour it. The babies pick at pieces of carrot and parsnip and I remember the happy mess that comes with weaning.

  Patton clutches my hand at every chance he gets. His relief that Bernard has left town is palpable. Once upon a time I might have played up his return to town in a bid to create a little drama, but I find more and more than I don’t want drama. I’m content, and while it’s a strange feeling for a girl like me who has mainly lived with a feeling of not being or doing enough, I can’t deny that it feels good.

  To look around the table and feel that I’m home is a precious feeling. I laugh along with everyone else when Taylor insists on carving the turkey, but secretly I think how right it looks, him being at the head of this table.

  Scarlett and Axel are adorable in festive sleepsuits and I catch Connie staring at them with mixed emotions throughout the day. Let yourself love them, I want to tell her, but I know only she can make that decision.

  Finally, the feast is over and we mimic the whole of America by taking our full bellies (or, for us spirits, our imaginary full bellies) to the nearest couch and finding a Christmas movie to watch.

  “This one!” Patton cries as Connie’s channel-surfing finds an old black and white movie. Nobody objects so she presses play.

  We settle into silence for a while, the babies happily chatting away to each other on the carpet, and then they each fall asleep, their arms and legs flung everywhere as if sleep found them without a moment’s warning.

  “Can we turn this off for a minute?” Taylor asks. His face is so ashen that Patton doesn’t object.

  “What’s wrong?” Connie asks.

  Taylor moves from the settee to the Christmas tree and gets down on his hands and knees, reaching to the back of the tree skirt. He emerges with a small gift, wrapped neatly in brown paper with a red bow.

  “This is for you,” he says, handing the present to my sister, who has flushed a deep shade of red.

  “Erm, we’ve exchanged presents?”

  “Well, this is another one,” Taylor says.

  Connie looks across at me but I simply shrug. She tears the paper to reveal a small jewellery box, her mind going to that place where any woman’s would upon such a sight.

  “Taylor, what’s going on?” Connie asks as she opens the lid of the box. Inside is a ring; a white gold band with twin diamonds.

  “It’s a ring,” he begins.

  “No kidding!” Patton exclaims.

  “But it’s not what you’re thinking,” Taylor adds quickly. “It’s not an engagement ring.”

  Cruel.

  “Connie, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But we all know that marriage comes with no guarantee. So, this isn’t an engagement ring because that isn’t enough of a commitment. I want us to be a family. Me, you and these snoring little babies. I know I come with baggage, and it’s not fair to ask you to open your heart to us all if it might not last forever.”

  Connie gulps.

  “This ring, if you want to accept it, is a family ring. Because I’m not proposing to you, but I am proposing something… I’m asking you to join my family. Forever.”

  “I don’t follow.” Connie says.

  “Me either!” I exclaim.

  “Connie, I’d like you to adopt the babies and legally become their mother. It’s a forever commitment. Nothing can break it. I want you to be their mom.”

  My sister doesn’t speak. I don’t think she could if she tried. Instead, her hands fly to her face and she dissolves into a puddle of tears, tears so heart wrenching that my whole body aches with the ghost pains of sympathy and love. When she finally sh
ows her face, her skin is blotchy and a huge snot bubble hangs from her nose. She’s a perfect mess and she’ll be the best mother in the world.

  “I mean, you can think about it…” Taylor says, misunderstanding her emotion.

  “Shut up!” Connie and I say in unison, and then my sister reaches not for Taylor, but for the babies, who are stirring at the sound of so much commotion. She scoops one up with each arm, as if she was born for this, which I guess she was. She gazes down at the babies she has craved for so long, and plants a kiss on each tiny forehead. “It’s a yes.”

  “It’s a yes?” Taylor asks with an elated laugh.

  “It’s a yes,” she repeats, and he moves across the carpet to them; to his family.

  THE END

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  The Witches of Mystic Springs

  A Mystic Springs Paranormal Cozy Mystery

  Copyright © 2019 by Mona Marple

  Cover Art by StunningBookCovers.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is dedicated to Nadine and Wilfrieda, for your support, warmth, and friendship on this journey.

  No author could wish for better readers, and friends, than you.

  As an author, I rely on the help of readers to spot those pesky typos that sneak through on each book. Thank you to Nadine Peterse-Vrijhof, Darla Abney, Debi Paglia and Angela Anderson for your help tracking them down in this book!

  1

  Violet

  I knew the envelope was suspicious as soon as it arrived, mainly because it floated in through the open window with wings that disappeared when it hit the floor.

  I may be one of the most powerful witches of modern America if you listen to the rumours, but my bills aren’t impressed by that. They usually arrive by the normal method - a delivery man leaves them in the box near the road.

  I nearly ignored the piece of mail entirely. Nothing good has ever come from post that flies its way in your house, in my experience.

  The crest gave it away, though.

  I’d remember that crest anywhere.

  Winifred’s School of Witchcraft and Magick.

  My alma mater, and a sure sign that us Warren witches had been in hard times. Hardly the kind of school that I should have gone to.

  I side-eyed the envelope and refused to let it spoil my concentration.

  I was in the middle of a glorious oil painting, already sold to one of those crudely rich collectors who wanted a Violet Warren original but actually had no art knowledge. Paint whatever you feel, they’d said to me on a long distance call from a cruise ship, let the materials speak to you.

  In other words, they didn’t know a thing about art. I could slap random pieces of colour on the canvas and they’d ooh and aah as if it was some complex piece waiting to be unlocked. And so that’s exactly what I was doing.

  Half a dozen colours were open, and I was using each one in turn, dipping a straw into the colour and then blowing the paint out onto the canvas. Spatter Pattern seemed like a good name. Let the critics wonder about the inspiration for this piece.

  They’d never believe me if I told them the truth - it was good, plain old fun. Lots of it too.

  Most kids at pre-school had done similar at some point, with a straw or their fingers or toes. I’m sure they’d all agree with me about how fun it was.

  When I’d blown so much paint that it was impossible to tell what colour the canvas had started off as, I put down my tools and returned to the envelope.

  It had been forty years or more since I’d even thought of Winifred’s. There was only one reason for them to contact me, surely - to ask for a donation. Their requests had always been regular, but they were starting to arrive nearly as often as my milk delivery did. Begging letters came too often, from people who felt I owed them something. Let me tell you, I don’t owe anyone a darn thing, and that’s the way I like it.

  I tore open the envelope. The heavy cream paper carried the smell of Winifred’s; a strange mix of damp, sweat and sugar.

  Dearest Alumni -

  You are invited to join an evening celebration of Winifred’s

  In honour of the transition to Academy Status

  Come and enjoy the school

  Before building work begins

  The future is magick

  The future is Winifred’s

  2

  Ellie

  If this coffee house wasn’t so overlooked by the Main Street, I’d have pulled out my wand, cast a circle of protection around me and used magic to clean the place. It was the worst job ever, but not quite bad enough for me to out myself as a witch to the whole town.

  But seriously, if I could have chosen anything as my idea of a nightmare job, it’d be picking out other people’s food crumbs and used tissues from the seats. It made my skin crawl. And it was how I got to end my working day - every day!

  You could say I had a bit of OCD. I just thought it sensible to be careful what I touched. Or what I let touch me. Ugh.

  I probably should have given that a bit more thought before I opened Screamin’ Beans Coffee House, but I honestly had no idea how dirty people were. Like, I always cleaned up after myself in a cafe. I just assumed everyone did the same, and then had to learn the hard way that they did not.

  And then there was Godiva’s cunning little face as he watched me from the most comfortable seat in the house while I swept up crumbs and packaging and who knows what else from the floor. He loved to be all smug about it.

  My mum had the most loyal, devoted familiar you could imagine so you’ll excuse me for having had high hopes that I’d end up with one who was actually on my side. Okay, okay, Godiva was on my side. When it really came down to it.

  A tap at the door interrupted my thoughts.

  “We’re closed,” I hollered, but there was nobody there. I glanced at Godiva, who shrugged. There weren’t many around Mystic Springs who could use a cloak of invisibility spell, but it was always best to be wary.

  As I approached the door, I saw the envelope and recognised the crest right away.

  I had no idea why my old school would be writing to me ten years after I’d left following a completely mediocre time there, but I was curious enough to open the door a crack. The envelope flew in and landed on the counter.

  “A letter from Winifred’s, hmm,” Godiva said. He stretched and padded across to me.

  “For me,” I snapped, still grumpy from the cleaning.

  “Hope it’s not a bill,” Godiva said with a laugh.

  “That’s enough out of you,” I warned.

  “Oh, I remember. No bills for you. You were a -”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a scholarship student,” I said with an eye roll. This was the problem with Godiva. He was a snob. It was in his breeding.

  “I know,” he said. “You’re just too easy to wind up. Come on, what does it say?”

  “I don’t know if I should open it,” I said as I turned the envelope over in my hand.

  Godiva let out a yawn. Tough life being a cat.

  My curiosity got the better of me and I tore the envelope open and read the letter to myself.

  Dearest Alumni -

  You are invited to join an evening celebration of Winifred’s

  In honour of the transition to Academy Status

  Come and enjoy the school

  Before building work begins

  The future is magick

  The future is Winifred’s

  “What is it?” Godiva asked with an eye half-open.

  I grimaced towards him. “An invitation.”

  He raised a feline eyebrow in genuine surprise. I was never invited anywhere an
d especially not anywhere that related to witchcraft. I wasn’t ashamed, exactly. I just wasn’t a very good witch. Hence me making my peace with a life running a coffee shop.

  At school, I’d always mixed up spells, the words getting confused in my mind. I was a poor student in most subjects, apart from cookery and woodwork. I liked to work with my hands, not my mind.

  And Winifred’s had focused on a very different kind of witchcraft than anything my family had prepared me for. We were humble garden witches. My mother especially could take a walk in a field for twenty minutes and come back with the exact ingredients required to cast a spell powerful enough to heal her best friend or curse her worst enemy.

  At Winifred’s, magic was learned by spell book, with spells practiced until they were memorised. As a child, I could tune in to my gut instincts and pick the exact plants needed to cast a particular spell, but Winifred’s told me that that type of magic was bad. Old-fashioned. Wrong. Unprofessional. Dangerous, even.

  And so I stumbled through four years of trying to memorise complex spells, when my instincts wanted to scream that all it took to solve a headache was a cup of lavender water or a piece of amethyst.

  My phone rang and made me jump.

  “Hey,” I said, glad of the distraction from my thoughts and the cleaning that still needed to be finished.

  “Have you had yours?” Crystal asked, her voice giddy with excitement. My best friend, and the only good thing to come from my time at Winifred’s, Crystal had drove me insane before I realised how nice she was. I’d looked at her, all sunshine and perfect teeth and no scholarship in sight, and thought she sailed through life easier than I ever had. I was annoyed by that, until she failed her first year exams. The necromancy teacher seemed to have taken pleasure in sealing her fate with a particularly harsh score on her coursework module.