Wicked, Manor, and Murder (Paranormal in Manhattan Mystery: A Cozy Mystery on Kindle Unlimited Book 7)

by Lotta Smith

  PROLOGUE: Jackie

  Detective Jamie Alabaster read the case file over and over, feeling edgy.

  She was investigating a serial assault/murder case happening near Pier 26, and Jackson Frederick Orchard, a Broadway actor, was the latest victim.

  Though she was desperate to find the killer of the three innocent people and one other severely injured person, she was running out of time. Not that she was terminally ill or too old to expect tomorrow to come like any other day, but she was leaving the NYPD in a few weeks. Her family ran a high-end sports bar and restaurant near Yankee Stadium for generations, and her father decided to retire early. As an only child, she didn’t have much choice not to succeed him at the establishment, and obviously, a detective’s salary was just a fraction of the earnings coming from the family business.

  Reading through the case file for the umpteenth time, she finally realized what had been bugging her. She’d met all the family, friends, and acquaintances of the latest victim, but one of them triggered Jamie’s sixth—or seventh—sense as a detective. On the surface, the person—a choreographer from the Aladdin production, which Jackson had been working on just before his untimely death—seemed like a quiet, soft-spoken guy, but she felt an eeriness about him. She couldn’t exactly pinpoint the cause, but she sensed a sinister vibe.

  As she rallied her courage to pay him another visit, her desk phone rang.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  Words escaped her as the caller informed her Ryan Francine, the man who Jamie was going to meet, had died in a car wreck just a few hours before.

  * * *

  Almost five years later…

  The sky was blue with just a few small clouds floating like little piles of cotton candy. The wind was quiet, and the Hudson River was calm. Reflecting the rays of sunshine, the river almost looked like a mirror. A couple of young, attractive, openly gay males kayaked down the river, breaking the tranquility, turning the mirrorlike surface of the water into an actively flowing stream.

  On the greenway by the river, people jogged, worked out, and walked the dogs. Everyone was smiling, laughing, high-fiving with their loved ones—looking happy and carefree.

  Jackson Frederick Orchard, a.k.a. Jackie, sat alone at a table in the outside garden of City Vineyard at Pier 26.

  Watching the happy people coming and going across the riverside walkway for fun and exercise had been her favorite pastime when she used to be a budding actor.

  Jackie liked to be addressed as a female, and she was blessed to have friends who treated her as a lady without questions or argument. There were times when she was a male actor who was often described as a heartthrob among female audiences, but nowadays, gender didn’t mean anything to Jackie anymore. After all, touching someone was physically impossible—much less hugging, kissing, or making love.

  When an elderly couple, probably in their seventies, was escorted to her table, Jackie waved at them. “Hi, there! How are you? It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” But neither of them acknowledged her, nor smiled. Jackie wasn’t saddened or offended by their response.

  She was used to such reactions—or lack thereof—from most people, and she understood their reaction wasn’t based on discrimination against her. For the majority of people, someone like Jackie was simply imperceptible—because, after all, she was dead and her body didn’t exist in this world anymore.

  Sometimes, she appreciated their inability to recognize her. No thanks to getting killed on the night of Pride Dance, she had been stuck in a skintight, neon pink tank top and a skimpy, neon green skirt. Her hair was big and messy, sporting a white boa headdress, and her heels were sky-high. Her necklace screamed ‘FESTIVE,’ which was inappropriate on occasions, like a funeral. Not to mention the huge knife sticking out of her side and a portion of her gut peeking out of the wound weren’t flattering her looks.

  The couple at her table ordered a glass of wine each before looking at the lunch menu.

  Sitting at the same table as them, Jackie learned that the wife’s name was Mandy and the husband’s was Rick. Jackie’s eyes widened in amusement. She knew a young couple with the same names. Mandy happened to be one of very few people in this world who could communicate with Jackie. Rick couldn’t see or hear dead people, but he was a topnotch FBI agent, and with Mandy’s help, he’d been trying to find the person who killed Jackie.

  Almost five years back, Jackie was stabbed to death, and the killer hadn’t been caught. Following the first three and a half years, she was practically nonexistent, for no one could see or hear her. When she found Mandy—or rather, Mandy found her—Jackie’s dead life had changed. To be exact, it was as if she’d gotten another life to live.

  She knew her friends were working hard to find her killer between the many cases they handled. As the saying goes, a crime scene is like Treasure Island in terms of information. Jackie often returned to the place she was killed in hopes of finding information about her killer. But at the same time, she was becoming less and less optimistic about her killer being identified, much less caught. The case was cold, and the detective who’d worked it had retired.

  Jackie stared at the greenway where she had been walking at the time of her death.

  On that night, she was excited. As a proud member of the LGBT community, participating in the dance party was not only fun but inspirational. Even after five years, she could still visualize the fireworks at the end of the party when she closed her eyes. She’d become acquainted with new people on the dance floor at the pier. One of the boys was devastatingly cute, and she’d felt huge potential for a romance with him. Aside from that, what truly made her happy was her blossoming career. After the years of lessons, followed by minor roles and working as one of many backup dancers, Jackie had finally nailed a larger role on Broadway.

  She had been walking along the greenway with her friends, but at some point, she found herself stranded in the party crowd. When a man passed by her side, she considered him to be one of the partygoers, but then he turned back and approached her. He was clad in a hooded black costume, and his face was invisible. At first, she thought the man found someone he knew behind her, but he came toward her.

  A dull pain throbbed in the side of her abdomen, and Jackie knew something wasn’t right. She reached down and discovered warm, wet liquid. To her horror, a large knife was sticking out of her painful belly. She opened her mouth to scream for help, but her voice failed to come out.

  Meanwhile, her attacker stood there, twisting the blade deeper into Jackie, not uttering a word.

  Recalling the night she died, Jackie couldn’t help but wonder if she would have made it to stardom if she were still alive. In the week following Pride Dance, Jackson Frederick Orchard was supposed to stand on the stage of the New Amsterdam Theater.

  She took a deep breath and shook her head in an attempt to forget about the future she might or might not have had. As they say, there’s no point crying over spilled milk. Thinking about the future she could never have was a waste of time.

  The couple at her table was discussing whether to order desserts as appetizers. Listening to them, Jackie wondered if the Mandy and Rick she’d known for over a year would end up like this mature couple.

  Book 6: Wicked and Haunted: http://bit.ly/2pnWicked6

  A blissful engagement, a haunted ring, throw in the mother-in-law from Hell...

  Wedding bells are about to ring for FBI Special Assistant Amanda Meyer and her sexy boss, Rick Rowling, but before they walk down the aisle, Mandy will have to solve a new case for the Paranormal Cases Division…and stop Rick’s estranged mother, Alice, from turning their ceremony into the wedding from hell.

  While Mandy has no trouble talking to dead people, her very alive future mother-in-law is another story. As she tries to graciously dodge Alice’s nutty plans for the ceremony—including a live llama and a tattoo exchange—she dives full-throttle into the investigation of a haunted ring with a reputation for killing its owners.


  Before Mandy can solve the case, however, Alice tries on the haunted ring and is possessed by its ghost. Can Mandy end the ring’s curse, save Rick’s mother, and keep her wedding from going to the llamas? Or will the cursed ring kill her before she can say, “I do”? Find out in this wickedly funny sixth adventure in the Paranormal in Manhattan Mystery Series!

  PI Assistant Extraordinaire Mysteries:

  Book 1: Ghostly Murder: http://amzn.to/204aWJ4

  A murder in a locked room…

  A faceless ghost…

  Throw in a cross-dressing detective-savant plus his assistant extraordinaire in this new mystery series!

  A high profile murder calls for a high profile detective.

  When the famous Sushi Czar is found dead in a room that’s locked from the inside, the evidence just doesn’t add up. Of course a killer ghost (supernatural killer) is no match for the deductive skills of Michael Archangel. The fabulous cross-dressing former FBI agent can rock a set of sky high stilettos and assemble clues like puzzle pieces, but can he actually prove a ghost committed murder?

  Only his assistant knows for sure. Former housewife and London socialite Kelly Kinki (it’s Kinki ending with an I not a Y) may someday be the Watson to Archangel’s Holmes, but for now, she’s following orders, coveting his fashion sense and learning from the master PI that there’s something truly fishy about this case.

  CHAPTER 1

  There’s a first time for everything.

  I was walking in the forest all by myself. It was a sunny day in late March, but in the shadows of tall trees, it was dark, cold, and creepy. Also, having a group of crows—a.k.a. a murder of crows—squawking over my head did nothing to calm my nerves.

  Don’t get me wrong. I was not an adventurer wannabe or a plant hunter wandering about some exotic forest in the middle of nowhere with a totally unpronounceable name, such as Tweebuffelsmeteenskootmorsdoodgeskietfontein in Africa. On the contrary, I was one of those so-called city workers. My job title was the personal assistant to a certain private investigator based in McLean, Virginia.

  I was in Arlington, the ‘good’ suburb of Washington DC. Though there was a metro station in walking distance, this part of the town was very quiet, giving it the feel of a godforsaken land. I wasn’t exaggerating. Maybe the fact that a man’s dead body was found nearby had something to do with my perception. In addition, considering he was stabbed to death, this neighborhood might not be such a good area. Oh, did I mention there was some wacko serial rapist still running loose in the neighborhood? As a woman with no expertise in martial arts, I had a gazillion reasons to be spooked.

  Walking in the forest wasn’t something I was doing by choice. Michael Archangel, my eccentric employer with a diva personality, made me do so. My mission was to look for either pantyhose, a ski mask, or big granny panties. Any of those items were supposed to help my employer with his most recent case, but I couldn’t figure out why or how. Anyway, I had never dreamed about going treasure-hunting for potentially used undergarments in the urban forest at the age of twenty-nine.

  When I was a kid, I wanted to be an alchemist or a doctor. But the reality wasn’t rosy enough to realize either of my childhood dreams. First of all, there was no alchemist school. In addition, my test score wasn’t good enough for premed programs. So my mom and fifth—or was it sixth?—faux-dad sent me to a finishing school in Switzerland where I mastered the art of eating an orange using a knife and a fork. After that, I became a housewife in London, obtained a bachelor’s degree in art, and then I got a divorce. People in Europe, especially rich people in London, still called me ‘the bitch who used to be married to that swindler’ a.k.a. the man who had committed the largest investment scam in the history of Great Britain.

  Here’s my point: Education is so overrated.

  My name is Kelly Kinki. Yes, it’s my real name as written on my birth certificate. No, my surname is not a joke. And no, I’m not into kinky sex. Kinky or otherwise, it had been a while since I had sex.

  As I thought about sex, I realized how much I hated walking through the creepy woods. I could think of much better things to do—such as tackling crossword puzzles or building a robot vacuum cleaner from scratch—but sometimes, you had to do what you had to do.

  All of the sudden, one of the crows let out an especially menacing squawk as something started chirping and vibrating at the same time, startling me.

  “Holy crap!”

  A second later, I realized it was coming from my purse and reached for my phone.

  “Hello? What can I do for you, Mr. Archangel?” I said to the person on the other end, who happened to be the one responsible for my current situation.

  There was no response.

  “Hello? Mr. Archangel?”

  Still nothing.

  From the other end, I could hear muffled voices. I recalled a bunch of retired gentlemen, who resided in the neighborhood, gathering at the crime scene. When I left there, they were busy gossiping. In my mind’s eyes, I could almost see and hear them cracking jokes and laughing their as—I mean, laughing their pants off. A moment later, I finally got a whispered response from Archangel.

  “Password.”

  “What? Password? What are you talking about?” I said, puzzled.

  “You need to provide the password of Michael Archangel Investigations.”

  “Excuse me? I’ve got your name on my caller ID. And it’s my voice. You can recognize me from my voice, can’t you?”

  “No. You sound different,” he said. “Actually, you sound pretty much annoyed.”

  “Come on, so I’m pretty much annoyed right now, but still, it’s me. Besides that, you’re the one who’s calling my phone, so you should know—” I was tempted to go on with my rant, but I realized it was easier to just tell the password.

  “All right! I’ll tell the password.” Then I stopped short. What was the password? I knitted my eyebrows. It was something about artists. Oh yeah—Matisse, Bonnard, and Rothko—that was it.

  “Matisse, Bonnard,” I said my part and waited for him to say “Rothko” but—

  “Okay, let’s get to the point.”

  “Hey!” I protested. “You’re supposed to finish the password before getting to the point. I said ‘Matisse, Bonnard’ and you’re supposed to say ‘Rothko.’ Without your finishing, the password isn’t complete!”

  “What are you babbling, Kelly? It’s me, Michael Archangel. You should be able to recognize me from my voice. Otherwise, you must be affected with an early-onset of Alzheimer’s.”

  All right, he had a point. The password was pretty much worthless since I knew I was talking to Archangel. His voice was deep, husky, and somewhat seductive, per usual. In addition, I knew no one else as fuc—I mean, freaking annoying as him.

  “So, what’s up, Mr. Archangel? Any progress?”

  “Yeah. The cops found the item I was looking for. I knew it was somewhere in the ground. Anyway, you can come back to the tennis court.”

  “What? So you sent me to this creepy forest fully knowing I wouldn’t be the one to find the granny panties?”

  “Actually, the discovered item turned out to be a ghost mask.”

  “That’s not the point. You sent me, of all people, to go into this deep, spooky, and potentially dangerous forest for a wild goose chase of a ghost mask you didn’t even bother to mention in the first place. On top of it all, I’m talking about these woods located near the site where a twenty-four-year-old female office worker was nearly raped last night for Pete’s sake!” I spat.

  I knew about her because, this morning, local news was all about this serial rapist in Arlington. In the past month, at least five women had been brutally raped. I was more than concerned about my own safety.

  “Good thing you’re much older than twenty-four years old,” was Archangel’s reply.

  “Excuse me? That’s not the point.” I continued. “This rapist has not yet been ID’d, much less arrested. Has it ever come to your mind that the rapist i
s still hiding in the darkness of these woods, determined to assault another young, innocent, and defenseless woman, such as your assistant? Imagine it. I might become his next prey. Aren’t you worried about me?”

  Without responding to my bullets of questions, he said, “Come back to the tennis court pronto. If you don’t come back before I finish wrapping up the case, I’ll leave without you.”

  And the line went dead.

  Words like manners and protocol must be missing from my employer’s dictionary.

  Man, I really, really hated this job.

  Book 2: Immortal Eyes: http://amzn.to/1T4DKC3

  Serial murder with a sick ritual...

  The most unusual way to use Eggs Benedict...

  The mismatched duo's race against time...

  Former London socialite Kelly Kinki doesn’t always see eye to eye with her sexy-as-hell boss Michael Archangel, but she’ll follow the brilliant, cross-dressing detective anywhere to help solve their latest case.

  Kelly was happy to lay her rep as the Dragon Lady to rest when she moved across the pond, but to catch an eyeball snatching serial killer she’ll have to put her skills at fire breathing to the test once again.

  A gruesome autopsy, a visit with her ex, and a shocking encounter with a killer compete for craziest day on the job, but nothing can hold a candle to a glimpse of her boss in the buff.

  Can Kelly and Archangel solve the case? The ayes have it. PI’s that is.

  Chapter 1

  There’s a first time for everything.

  I was at a medical examiner’s office in rural Virginia. It was my first visit to this place and, actually, it also happened to be my very first trip to a morgue. I was there to attend the autopsy of a woman who allegedly had fallen victim to a brutal murder. So far, I’d seen more than my share of corpses in the past four months; however, I usually saw them at crime scenes and not morgues.

  I didn’t know much about the statistics of murders, but I had seen lots of homicide victims since starting this job. In the beginning, I kept track of the body count, but I stopped counting after hitting ten on the third day of my current employment. Later, I learned it was just a temporary thing—one of those crazy, busy times—the “on-season” of killing. Anyway, who knew murders had on-seasons? And I’m not talking about Walmart jobs during the holiday season or the wedding industry in June.