by Misty Simon
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Misty Simon
Desperately Seeking Salvage
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The book halted suddenly, the air stilling as she looked down at the name highlighted in red. “Jameson McElroy Cleverton.”
Well, she knew where he was because she’d rented him out in his shaving kit to Mrs. Paisley to clear her house of negative energy brought on by her family fighting during a family reunion last week. “Next.”
More flapping followed by a slowing down, and one page at a time slid across each other. Another name was highlighted in red. “Casey Deavers.”
Casey in his sea-glass bubble was on a trip to the Martins’ house to dust the knickknacks standing on the shelf that no one wanted to use a ladder for, ten feet above the floor. “Next.”
One page slid slowly to the right but settled back down before it fully flipped.
She tried to move it herself, and it was as if it had been welded to the other pages. Grabbing a letter opener from her Gem and the Holograms cup, she tried to wedge it in between the pages, but the bugger wasn’t budging.
She slapped both hands on the desk, stared hard at the book, and said, “Show me the next.”
The page rippled like water in a pond after a rock had been thrown, but it didn’t flip.
“What’s going on?” Becker asked.
She shook her head at him, not wanting to break her concentration. “Show me the next,” she said louder and with more force.
Praise for Misty Simon
POISON IVY: “I loved this book. I was laughing during most of it.”
~Rae, My Book Addiction and More (4.5 rating)
THE WRONG DRAWERS: “…a sass filled, one-two punch of delightfully quirky humor and intriguing mystery.”
~Jacki King, bestselling author
WHAT’S LIFE WITHOUT THE SPRINKLES?: “Ms. Simon’s writing has warmth, her characters seem like real people, and her plotting drew me in….”
~Angie Just Read, The Romance Reviews
“If you enjoy romance stories about two people burned by relationships gone bad…then look no further.”
~Xeranthemum, Long and Short Reviews (4.5 Books)
~*~
Misty Simon’s books at The Wild Rose Press:
The Kissinger Kisses Series
What’s Life Without the Sprinkles?
Making Room at the Inn
Go Ahead, Make My Bouquet
Christmas in Kissinger
The Ivy Morris Mysteries
Poison Ivy
The Wrong Drawers
Something Old, Something Dead
Frame and Fortune
For Love and Cheesecake
Adventures in Ghostsitting
Desperately Seeking Salvage
Desperately Seeking Salvage
by
Misty Simon
Adventures in Ghostsitting, Book 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Desperately Seeking Salvage
COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Misty Simon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2016
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0943-9
Adventures in Ghostsitting, Book 1
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For all my eighties lovers out there! Let's go crazy!
Chapter One
She was out of the good creamer. Melanie Hargrove, Mel to her few friends, slammed the refrigerator door, rattling the cookie jar on top. Mrs. Hatchett swooped out and down to hover at shoulder height.
“Excuse me, Missy, but what is all the racket?”
She’d done it now. Mel sighed and leaned against the fridge. She might as well settle in for the lecture. Mrs. Hatchett was happy to take any opportunity to correct Mel on her behavior. The fact that the woman was a ghost and had been dead for almost fifty years did not stop her from bending at the waist and wagging an accusing finger in Mel’s face.
“I have very little space in the cookie jar, and when you rattle it around it’s like a cyclone in there. I don’t ask much, Miss Hargrove. A place out of the way, some peace and quiet, and a few courtesies. One of those being that I am not rattled around like a pair of dice in a gambler’s hands. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hatchett. I apologize, Mrs. Hatchett. It won’t happen again, Mrs. Hatchett.” More often than not, if Mel could appease the former teacher’s need to be in a position of authority, they could get through this part a whole lot faster, and Mrs. Hatchett would go back into her cookie jar. Until next time.
“You’re impertinent.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hatchett.”
She harrumphed, gave Mel a squinty-eyed look, and then zoomed back into her jar. With any luck she’d stay there.
Heading out to the living room, Mel stopped for her purse. The 1904 Victrola whirled to life, some long-forgotten vinyl spinning until it picked up speed. The needle dropped, and Mel’s mom’s voice came out scratchy over the strains of a violin. “Where are you going, dear? Didn’t you just go out yesterday? And again this morning?”
“Yep. But I forgot my favorite creamer, and I can’t live without it.”
Peggy Hargrove stuck her head out of the horn sitting atop the box where the record continued to play. “Be careful. And if you’re seeing that cutey Becker, don’t forget to kiss him.”
“Mom…”
“I’m just saying, sweetie. You’re not getting any younger, and the next generation has to come along to take over the junkyard.”
Somebody help her. Her mother had died ten years ago but was still able to lecture Mel like a broken record. Pardon the pun.
“I’m still young enough to not be worried about my biological clock, Mom. It’ll work out in its own time.”
“Fine, but I want you to be careful. Something hasn’t felt right around here for the last few days. I can’t put my finger on what, but the vibes are off.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” With the thirty other things she had to keep track of. Her father was supposed to be rolling into town any day now with a new delivery, and she was sure she’d get the same lecture from him if he decided to stick around long enough to talk to her this time. “I’ll be back soon. Keep everyone in line while I’m gone.”
“I’ll do my best.” Peggy lifted a translucent hand to her smiling mouth and blew a kiss in Mel’s direction.
After grabbing her keys from the hook next to the door, Mel headed out to her car around back in the barn. Several ghosts waved to her on her way through the junkyard and out to the dri
veway that led to the main road. In the rearview mirror, the huge yellow Victorian that had stood for over a century looked small compared to the surrounding mounds of well-organized junk people brought to her home for her to sort, sell, or salvage.
Some spirits played chess as she drove along the winding road, some played tag around broken cars and washing machines, one was even pretending to sail a boat that had been brought to Hargrove Junkyard ten years ago. Each one was attached to something in the graveyard, mostly jewelry boxes or personal effects. Some were attached to tires or cars. A whole football team was attached to a bus that had crashed with them on it. And they all ended up here—in what was effectively a retirement home for those not ready to go to the great beyond.
She waved back and turned right to head into the small, quaint town of Frysville. With the radio cranked up to blast Tears for Fears, she stuck her hand out the window to make waves in the crisp air of the early October afternoon.
Loud and proud, she sang along with the tape in the tape deck of her 1986 Toyota Camry. Her love of the eighties was something that made her happy, and if people didn’t like it, then they could go to their own time warp.
She lived almost seven miles from town, but it was better that way. There were too many unexplained things that happened out at her house and the surrounding land for her to be able to live much closer than that. People knew where she lived, of course; they just didn’t often come out.
Her family had kept to themselves for years, and she was no different. She’d strayed into the dating pool a few times and had a few friends, but most were online. Being out here meant she didn’t venture out a whole lot other than to deliver things or buy necessities to keep her stocked. Becker was changing some of that, but it was pretty much her routine to stay in her own space with the ghosts for company.
Today was completely out of the norm, though. Less than four hours ago, she’d gone in to the grocery store. How she’d forgotten to get creamer was beyond her, but she couldn’t function without it, and it was more than worth a second trip to the store to feed her craving.
Pulling into town, she navigated narrow streets between cars parked at the sidewalk in front of shops that had stood there for years and years.
Her cell phone rang on the seat beside her. Glancing at the readout, she pulled to the side of the road to answer. As a veterinarian, Becker didn’t often call during the day, and she didn’t want to miss talking to him when he did. Pulling over was the only way she could answer the phone, since she still hadn’t moved completely into the twenty-first century with hands-free anything.
“Hey!”
“Hey there, Mel.” He said something else, but she didn’t catch it with the music so loud.
“What?”
He mumbled something again. She stuck her finger in her ear and asked him again what he’d said.
“Turn the radio down!” he yelled just as the song changed.
She pressed the stop button and laughed. “Yeah, sorry about that.”
“No problem.”
The smile in his voice warmed her in all the places it should. As her mom said, he was a keeper, but she didn’t want to rush things, just in case dating the resident eighties throwback junkyard girl lost its luster.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“In the car near Mulberry Street.” She glanced at the nearest street sign to make sure she was right. Sure enough, “Mulberry Street” was stamped on the antique street sign. She’d have to remember to tell Mrs. Hatchett that her street was still safe and sound and her flowers on the corner had survived another year.
“Are we on for dinner tonight? I have an order in at the Italian place already, so I’ll grab it on my way out.”
It wasn’t that she was a recluse; she’d simply not had much use for town up until she and Becker had started dating. He’d come to the area from a large city, lived in a townhouse, and was around other people all day. That would make her insane.
“Sounds good.” And she’d grab a bottle of wine while she was out so that she had something to contribute besides her scintillating conversation and lace gloves.
“Do you need anything else from town?”
Now it was her turn to smile. The man knew his way to her heart.
“Nope. See you tonight.”
“It’s a date.”
She closed her clam-shell phone and continued on, feeling pretty happy with her circumstances in general. Something she hadn’t felt for a long time before Becker had answered her ad in the newspaper for someone to hang out with, minus the strings. Those strings hadn’t been in existence for the first three months, but six months ago she’d gladly let him wrap her up with those three little words—“Eighties suits you.”
She approached the town square, where every out-of-towner seemed to get lost in some kind of Bermuda triangle when trying to figure out how to drive the traffic circle. She was singing at the top of her lungs, but her mind went blank when she glanced over at the white gazebo on the lawn in the center of the circle, their version of a town square.
Standing at the base was a statue that had not been there yesterday afternoon when she’d come through for a package at the post office from her father. It hadn’t been there this morning, either, when she’d grocery shopped. But it was here now, and she really hoped she wasn’t seeing what she thought she was seeing.
“I need a spot,” she said to herself, her voice quavering and her hand gripping the steering wheel hard. “Now. Park anywhere. Even if you have to parallel park.” It was a skill she had not quite mastered, so of course it was the only parking she found.
After about twenty shifts back and forth in front of the local pharmacy, she finally got as close to the curb as possible, then jerked the car into Park. She shoved open the door and dodged around the traffic to get to the gazebo as fast as her jelly shoes could carry her.
Sliding around the corner of the stout white building, she nearly collided with a nightmare come true.
Chapter Two
When Mel started second grade, a new principal had roamed the halls on the first day. For a small rural town, there weren’t normally many changes in life. The man who ran the grocery store still ran the grocery store. The family who had owned the pharmacy since 1915 might have changed a few things, but a Scotmore still stood behind the counter, doling out lollipops and antibiotics with a crooked smile and a handshake.
So a new principal was a big deal. The change scared Mel, but she tried to be brave, as her mom had taught her. The new principal, Mrs. Buzzard, was not easy to be brave around, with her stern expressions and severely bobbed haircut. She still scared the bejesus out of Mel if they met in the produce aisle of McHenry’s Grocery.
And so to see her likeness in marble, naked as a stray dog, standing next to the gazebo in the center of town was…unnerving. Not to mention that Mel was pretty sure no one needed to be that accurate with the direction in which Mrs. Buzzard’s nipples pointed.
Who had done this, and why would they have chosen this subject? Had Mrs. Buzzard posed for it in some community project? Mel couldn’t fathom that. It must be some kind of prank. Halloween was coming up, and perhaps some kids had decided to immortalize the principal as a joke.
She highly doubted the woman would find this funny.
Traffic whizzed around the square. If nothing else, she had to cover the poor woman up. Not that it was really the teacher, but something had to be done about the nipples and other parts and pieces that no one should have to look at.
When a choke-like laughing noise sounded behind her, she whipped around to find her boyfriend Becker behind her with his hands full of groceries.
“I wouldn’t laugh. If Mrs. Buzzard sees this thing, someone is going to lose a chunk of their ass.”
“No doubt about that.” He did a full 360 around the statue, his brown hair waving in the slight breeze, his blue eyes scanning back and forth. “She doesn’t look a day over eighty.”
“She’s sixty-tw
o.”
“Huh.”
Mel caught him looking at the woman’s nipples as she finally grasped what she was looking for in her handbag. As quickly as she could, she used four small skull-and-crossbones bandages to make Xs over the marble nipples. Of course, it didn’t address the areas farther below, but there was only so much Mel could do with the contents of her purse.
“Give me your coat,” she said to Becker, holding out her hand.
Putting his bags of purchases on the ground at the foot of the statue, he slowly shrugged out of his coat, his forehead creasing. “Are you cold?”
“Nope.” She tossed the jacket around the nude statue and buttoned it up. Fortunately, Becker was a big guy, so the hem of the plaid, fleece-lined jacket reached almost to Mrs. Buzzard’s knees. “Okay, I feel better now.”
“Well, I don’t. It’s a little brisk out here for short sleeves, and parts of the statue that I’d rather not think about are touching parts of my jacket.”
“So don’t think about it.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
“Try anyway. Can you go around back and make sure the jacket’s covering all of her?”
“Yeah, that’s not helping.” But he did it anyway.
When he came back around, they both stood staring at the statue.
“Who would have done this?” She tugged on the arm of the jacket to even it out. Not that it covered anything. With the arms of the statue firmly against the body there was nothing to do except drape the coat, but it gave Mel something to do.
“I don’t know of anyone who has the skill or the time. A statue like that would have taken weeks to make.”
“And why would you choose this subject if you’re going to take the time to make something this extensive?” She walked around again, noticing more of the fine detail. The marble wasn’t completely smooth; there were wrinkles behind the woman’s knees and a mole at the back of her heel. “This wouldn’t have taken weeks; it would have taken months.” She pointed out the things she’d found and was grateful when Becker crouched down next to her. She hadn’t been sure exactly how she was going to get up because her knee had locked in place, but now that she could use her hand on his back to lever herself up, she felt better.