The Ghost and the Muse (Haunting Danielle Book 10)

by Bobbi Holmes

  “Why did his line of work surprise you?”

  “He’s built pretty good for a man of his age—solid, nice shoulders, arms. Like he’s in construction.”

  “I think he’s a little old for construction,” Danielle said.

  “I know. I just meant his build. And from what I could see, he had a nice tan. He’s solid like he’s used to manual labor. Although, I imagine if I inspected his hands, they’re probably all soft like a baby’s bottom, considering those slacks he was wearing and that designer golf shirt.”

  Danielle laughed. “He had nice gray eyes too.”

  “Yes, he did. Sexy.”

  “And did you notice how they were always on Beverly?” Danielle asked.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t think he was there just to offer his condolences; I got the impression he was staking an early claim, getting there before anyone else.”

  “Danielle! Why would you say that? Beverly said he was a good friend of Steve’s and had just learned about Steve’s death this morning. I certainly don’t think the first thing he’d think about is jumping the widow.”

  Danielle laughed. “Oh, Lily, so naïve.”

  Lily frowned over at Danielle. “Why do you say that?”

  “I remember once my mother telling me that after her father died, a number of grandpa’s friends hit on grandma—and I’m talking about married friends. Mom said that often happens to a woman when a husband dies. I didn’t really take it seriously, not until Lucas died.”

  Turning in her seat, Lily faced Danielle. “Are you telling me some of your married friends hit on you after Lucas died?”

  “Yep. I would have been totally shocked had I not remembered what my mother had told me. Beverly is an attractive woman, and I imagine she’ll encounter more than one of her married friends making a pass. At least with this Baron guy, he’s not married. At least, I don’t think he is. She mentioned he’d lost his wife, and she didn’t say anything about a current wife, and I didn’t see a ring. So at least it won’t be quite as sleazy.”

  “Still sleazy if you hit on a vulnerable widow before her husband is laid to rest. Even if a guy is single.”

  Danielle shrugged, her eyes still on the road and her hands steering the wheel.

  “So who were they?” Lily asked.

  “Who was what?”

  “The married guys who hit on you.”

  Danielle tossed out two names and Lily gasped. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? Is that why you dropped out of that book club?”

  “Well, I didn’t have time to read for any book clubs back then, with Lucas suddenly gone and me trying to deal with the business. But I certainly didn’t feel comfortable sitting around discussing books with a couple of women whose husbands dropped by my house uninvited to offer their condolences—in what they hoped would be the most intimate way.”

  “I hope they didn’t stop by at the same time!” Lily teased.

  Danielle laughed. “No, thank goodness I only had to deal with one obnoxious guy at a time.”

  “I don’t understand, why would they do something like that and risk the friendship? You and Lucas used to do a lot with those couples. I imagine it made it extremely awkward for you when you ran into their wives—who were your friends.”

  “I’ve given it a lot of thought. I have a theory. They see a new widow as someone who is vulnerable—ripe—someone who they can manipulate by giving her what she needs—comfort and human contact. I wanted someone to hold me after Lucas died. I just didn’t want it to be another woman’s husband. I don’t believe for a moment they were offering real comfort—even in a misguided way. They were nothing but predators, in my opinion.”

  “I’d be tempted to tell their wives,” Lily said angrily.

  “I thought about it. For about two seconds. But then I remembered how Cheryl had hit on Lucas before our wedding and how she had tried to blame him. But I didn’t blame Lucas, I blamed Cheryl, and it caused a bigger rift in our relationship.”

  “I thought she really was the one at fault.”

  “She was. That time, Lucas really was innocent. But my point is, chances are those women would not have believed me—their husbands would’ve probably made up some story about how I hit on them. And then I wouldn’t just lose them as friends; they would hate me. No, it was better to just pull away.”

  “That really sucks.”

  Just as Danielle turned onto Beach Drive, she spotted a man walking on the sidewalk. Something about him looked familiar. She slowed down and glanced up in the rearview mirror.

  “Did you see him?” Danielle asked.

  Lily looked out the back window. “See who?”

  “There was a man walking on the sidewalk. I swear he looked like Hillary’s muse.”

  Lily rolled down the window and looked up the street where they had just come from.

  “I don’t see anyone. If he really is a ghost like you suspect, maybe you really did see something. You suppose he’s haunting the neighborhood, looking for Hillary’s spirit?”

  Danielle parked the car along the street in front of Marlow House. She quickly got out of the vehicle and looked back up the street. She didn’t see anyone.

  “There’s no one there now. But I swear I saw something. Someone.”

  Heather Donovan stood at the bathroom mirror, staring at her reflection. She had just removed the rubber bands from her hair and combed out the tangles, leaving her jet black hair smooth and straight, falling past her shoulders.

  “Why can’t anything go right for me?” Heather asked herself. “I’ve tried to be a good person. I’ve tried to make amends for past sins.”

  Turning from the mirror, she walked from the bathroom, flipping off the light on her way out. In the hall her calico Bella greeted her, weaving in and out around Heather’s feet. Stopping for a moment, Heather reached down and scooped up the cat, taking her in her arms as she headed to the living room.

  Sitting on the coffee table was the laptop computer. It mocked her. The book she had promised to write was never going to get written. At first she wanted to blame her failure on Danielle. After all, Danielle refused to collaborate on the story of Harvey’s haunting—yet the truth was, she simply didn’t have it in her.

  Writing a book, Heather decided, was excruciatingly boring. Being an author sounded much cooler than actually doing the work to become one.

  Flopping down on the sofa with the cat still in her arms, Heather lifted one foot and used it to slam shut the laptop computer. She slid it to the far end of the coffee table before propping her feet on the edge of said table.

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do, Bella. I’m going to have to get a damn job.” Heather stroked the now purring cat.

  “In another month, my savings will be gone. If mom would have paid those damn taxes on Presley House, I could’ve sold the property and got something. I suppose I could try selling this house—but what’s this place really worth now, once a buyer finds out about the mold? I’d be better to burn it down, like Presley house.”

  Suddenly bored with the attention, Bella stood up and then jumped to the floor, abandoning Heather.

  “Fine, leave me. Everyone else does.”

  By the time Bella was down the hallway and out of sight, Heather was leaning back on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling.

  “What is the point in all this? Why couldn’t it have been me that died in my sleep instead of Hillary Hemingway? Maybe she was an old woman, but at least she had something to live for. What do I have?”

  Letting out a dejected sigh, she lifted her head from the back of the sofa and proceeded to stand up. Just as she did, she glanced to the living room window, its blind wide open. To her surprise, there was a man looking through the glass pane. He stood in her flower planter just outside the window—staring in.

  Heather let out a scream.

  “He was right there!” Standing in her front yard, Heather pointed to the flower planter under her living
room window.

  Sergeant Joe Morelli stood next to her and looked down into the planter.

  “I don’t see any footprints, and none of the flowers are smashed. Are you sure that’s where he was standing?”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” she shrieked.

  “No. But maybe he wasn’t standing in the planter—”

  “He was standing in the planter, I saw him! He was the same man who was down on the beach when I found Steve Klein’s body. Of course, then he couldn’t be bothered to help. Now he turns into some freaking peeping tom and starts looking into windows!”

  With a sigh, Joe took out his notepad and pen. “Okay, can you give me a description of what he looked like—how old do you think he was, how tall, any distinguishing marks you might have noticed, anything that might be used to identify him.”

  “I guess he was about your age. Not really sure how tall he was, average, I suppose. Not short but not tall. He had dark hair—oh, and dark eyes. I noticed that. Kind of an olive complexion. Nice looking, or at least he would have been had he not been looking in my window. What kind of sicko does that?”

  “And you say you saw him on the beach yesterday?”

  “Yes. And he was wearing the same thing he was wearing yesterday. I can understand wearing the same thing two days in a row—but a suit and red bow tie, to the beach?”

  “What kind of suit?”

  Heather shrugged. “Black suit with a white shirt and this goofy red bow tie. Such a nerdy thing to wear.”

  “You sure this was the same guy you saw yesterday?” Joe asked.

  Heather looked at Joe as if he had just said the most stupid thing in the world. She rolled her eyes, exaggerating the gesture. “You honestly believe there are two guys walking around the neighborhood wearing a black suit and red bow tie? Seriously?”

  Joe shrugged and jotted down a note and then closed the notepad.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “We’ll keep an eye out for this guy. I’ll see if there’s anything out on someone who meets that description. While technically it is illegal for someone to be going onto private property and looking into people’s windows, it’s not really that uncommon here. Tourists are always checking out potential rental houses and often assume something is empty when they look in. I doubt this guy is dangerous, but we’ll see what we can find out.”

  Heather expelled a frustrated growl and turned abruptly from Joe, making her way to her front door. “You people are useless. Utterly useless!”

  Eight

  The room had been closed up like a tomb since they had found her body. Other than Hillary’s purse, which had been rummaged through on Friday morning in search of emergency contact information, nothing else had been disturbed. The only information the purse had offered up was proof Hillary had a heart condition, if the medication she was taking was any indication.

  Joanne wasn’t coming back to work until Friday. On Friday, she would clean the room and change the sheets. But Danielle couldn’t leave the room untouched until then. She needed to pack up Hillary’s belongings and send them—send them where she wasn’t sure yet.

  And so, Danielle found herself on Monday morning standing at Hillary’s now open doorway, looking into the room and dreading the task at hand.

  Why am I always left to sort through a person’s belongings after they’ve moved on? Danielle asked herself, thinking of how that task had fallen to her after her parents’ death and Cheryl’s. Of course this time it was only one room, yet still, it was not something she wanted to do.

  Telling herself to stop being a wimp, Danielle marched into the empty room and went straight to the window. What this room needs is some fresh air. She attempted to open the window, yet its rusted latch refused to budge. Prying and pushing had little influence over what now appeared to be a stubbornly stationary object. Danielle let out a curse and then heard Walt’s voice.

  “You need a little help?”

  The latch suddenly unlocked and the window flew open. Danielle leapt back in surprise. With a laugh, she turned from the now open window and faced Walt.

  “Thanks,” she said with a smile.

  “No problem.” Walt glanced around the room. “Are you packing up Hillary’s belongings?”

  “Yeah. You haven’t seen her, have you?”

  Walt shook his head. “Not since she left the house on Thursday night.”

  Danielle walked to the bed and proceeded to pull off the sheets, dropping them in a heap on the floor. “I sort of expected her to return. She obviously had no clue she was dead when we saw her. I wonder, is she just wandering around, or has she moved on?”

  “Each of our journeys is different, Danielle. Hillary is traveling her own path; she’ll get to where she needs to go.”

  “You sound like a philosopher now.” Danielle tugged the pillows from their cases.

  “Would you like me to help? I could pack Hillary’s things. I’m quick.”

  Danielle laughed at Walt’s offer. “No, thanks. I remember how you packed Cheryl’s suitcase.”

  Walt shrugged and took a seat at the desk chair; he glanced down at the typewriter. “I won’t miss that.”

  “I’m sort of sad I have to send that back. I’m tempted to ask her estate if I can buy it from them.” Danielle picked up the linens and blankets now on the floor and tossed them on the center of the bed while neatly piling the pillows next to them.

  “Why in heaven’s name would you want that annoying machine and its clacking keys? Your laptop is much quieter.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to use it. I thought it would look good in the library, sort of a tribute to Hillary—after all, she wrote her last book here, on that typewriter.”

  “A nice promotional gimmick.”

  Danielle paused and looked at Walt. She scrunched her nose. “True, but that’s not why I want it. Poor Hillary is dead.”

  Walt shrugged. “We’re all going to be dead someday. I already am. Actually, I think it’s a good idea. You should ask to buy it. It’s not like you’re asking them to give it to you. And trust me, there are plenty of people who would conveniently forget to ship the typewriter and then declare they don’t know anything about it.”

  “That would be just wrong.”

  Before Walt could respond, Danielle’s cellphone beeped. She had an incoming text message. Removing her cellphone from her pocket, she read the message and then looked up to Walt.

  “That was from the chief. He got the addresses from Melony where to send Hillary’s belongings. I’m going to go ahead and box them up and then take them to the post office. The sooner I get this done, the better.”

  “Even the typewriter?”

  “Yeah, even the typewriter. I think I have some boxes in the attic.”

  “Let me get those for you.” In the next moment, Walt vanished.

  Flashing a smile to the space Walt had occupied just a moment before, Danielle walked to the dresser. Before she had a chance to open the first drawer, her cellphone rang. It was Chris.

  “What’re you doing?” he asked.

  Holding the cellphone to her ear, Danielle glanced around the bedroom. She sat down on the edge of the unmade bed.

  “Getting ready to pack up Hillary’s things. Walt went to get me some boxes from the attic.”

  “Handy to have a ghost around the house.”

  “It can be.” Danielle smiled.

  “I was wondering if you wanted to go out to lunch with me. We could stop at the post office first and send Hillary’s boxes.”

  “Sure. Lunch sounds good, and I could use some help wrestling with the boxes.”

  “What are you doing about Hillary’s car?”

  “I guess her estate is having someone pick it up. I’m not mailing that.”

  Danielle and Chris sat together at Pier Café. Carla had just brought them their order. She wasn’t her normal talkative self.

  “I think Carla’s taking Steve’s death hard,” Danielle whispered after the
waitress left their table.

  “She looks like she’s on the verge of tears.” Chris picked up his French dip.

  “It’s hard enough to deal with losing someone you care about, but to have to hide your grief, well, I feel sorry for her, even though I don’t approve of what she and Steve did.”

  Chris shrugged. “We never know what goes on behind closed doors.”

  “You mean like what Steve’s marriage was like?”

  “That and all of it. We don’t know what brought Carla and Steve together or why Steve didn’t just leave his wife. People are complicated. Relationships are complicated. Who am I to judge?”

  Danielle paused and looked up from her plate. “You think I’m judging?”

  Chris shrugged again. “A little. But that’s okay. We all do it to some extent. And I know where you’re coming from, considering what you went through with your husband.”

  “True.” Danielle took a bite of her chicken salad.

  In the next moment Heather Donovan walked through the diner’s doorway. Danielle stopped eating a moment and looked Heather’s way. The young woman, her hair pulled up on top of her head and haphazardly secured with a clip, glanced around the diner, looking for someplace to sit.

  “Heather’s here. Can we invite her to sit with us?” Danielle asked in a whisper.

  “Sure.” Chris took a bite of his French dip.

  Danielle called out to Heather. She looked their way. Danielle waved her to the table. Reluctantly, Heather approached.

  “I don’t want to interrupt anything,” Heather said when she reached the table.

  “Don’t be silly. Join us,” Danielle said as she scooted over to make room.

  When Heather sat down, Chris said, “And I’m treating.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” Heather sounded out of sorts. She dropped her purse on the floor by her feet.

  “Are you okay, Heather? Is something wrong?” Danielle asked.

  “Do you have all day?”

  Before they could respond, Carla showed up at the table and took Heather’s order.