Make-Believes & Lost Memories
Bohemian Murder Manor Mysteries
Rachael Stapleton
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Copyright © 2018 Rachael Stapleton
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.
The Time Traveling Bibliophile Series
Book 1: Temple of Indra’s Jewel
Book 2: Temple of Indra’s Curse
Book 3: Temple of Indra’s Lies
Book 4: Temple of Indra’s Witch
Also by Rachael Stapleton:
Bohemian Lake Cozy Mysteries
Penning Trouble Mystery Book 1: Murder, She Floats
Penning Trouble Mystery Book 2: Murder, She Slopes
Haunted House Flippers: Cookies, Corpses & the Deadly Haunt
Haunted House Flippers: Candy Canes, Corpses & the Gothic Haunt
Bohemian Murder Manor: Gypsies, Traps & Missing Thieves
Read all about Rachael Stapleton and her books at RachaelStapleton.com
1
T HE living room’s thick, velvet curtains were drawn, but it wasn’t enough of a barrier, Mallory thought as she listened to the rain lashing against the windows; the wind shook the manor’s cupolas as if it were about to tear them loose. Nights like this always kept Mallory on edge. The storm was like a lightning rod for paranormal activity. She’d already woken to several spirits, but that wasn’t what was bugging her. No, it was the feeling inside that was tormenting her. She’d been struck with déjà vu a time or two before in her life but nothing like when she’d looked inside that dusty old journal from the attic. The feeling had clawed its way inside her head and bled into her dreams, haunting her then and now.
“What are you doing?”
Mallory was ripped from her thoughts and she looked up through a blur of tears at the cranky old woman barreling across the living room toward her.
“Nothing,” Mallory said, wiping the tears from her eyes.
“Give me the knife, Malhala.” Nana only used her Roma name when she meant business—such as now. “You’re bawling like a scolded toddler in a toy store. And you’re bleeding.” Nana came to stand opposite Mallory on the other side of the kitchen island.
“I’m not bawling, thank you very much,” Mallory exclaimed. “My eyes are just watering.”
“Mm-hmm, and you can hardly see.”
Nana reached forward and grabbed hold of the Santoku knife handle, nicking herself as she wrenched it back from her eldest granddaughter.
“Since when do you have a problem with someone preparing you breakfast?”
“I have a problem because it’s three in the morning and it sounds like you’re murdering my countertop.” She looked down at the cut on Mallory’s finger, “Lucky for the counter, you’re only after appendages.”
“It’s just a scratch. I had a nightmare, and I couldn’t get back to sleep,” Mallory said, holding a wet paper towel first to her eyes, and then to her wounded finger. “I thought I’d chop some onion and mushrooms and make us omelets. Who knew chopping onions would render me blind and useless?”
Nana cleared her throat, “I knew, that’s who.” She walked behind Mallory and switched on the kettle. “Now, how about a healing salve for us both?” Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “you can practice your skills and get me my recipe book.”
Recipe book was code for spell book. Roma people were not supposed to write things down. It went against their beliefs, but Nana said that was tomfoolery, she was liable to burn the house down mixing tonics without her book.
“Nana, can we skip your little teaching games right now? I don’t really feel up to the task,” Mallory protested.
“Don’t disrespect your elders, Malhala, dear,” Nana chided as she took Mallory’s hand and led her to the living room. There were books everywhere. They lined the walls from floor to ceiling, the gilt lettering on their worn spines glinting in the soft light. “Hurry up now,” Nana murmured as Mallory mounted the rolling book ladder and looked back over her shoulder.
“I wish you wouldn’t make me do this when I’m not in the mood.”
On the best of days Nana was bossy. The past two months, though, she’d been on Mallory’s case daily to hone her intuitive skills. And, boy, was she crotchety when ignored.
Mallory gripped the sides of the ladder and stared at the books in front of her, sitting perfectly in place like long-lost friends on the polished shelves.
“Now, close your eyes and see if you can sense which book is needed.”
Mallory twitched at the suggestion. The women of her family possessed great abilities, but, unlike her mother and her Nana before her, she didn’t have much to offer. Of course, that would never stop Nana from trying. She was convinced that Mallory’s gift of intuition would solve the mystery of her father’s death and her mother’s disappearance—as if finding a lost watch or catching someone in a lie would lead them to the killer. Of all the possible gifts to have … Mallory felt cheated. It’s not like her nana could walk through walls or shoot electricity from her fingertips–at least she didn’t think so—but her talents were cool. Not so much the one that included bossing Mallory around, but the tarot cards and tea leaves were neat, and they were good for business.
“Go on, Malhala,” Nana encouraged. She pushed her on the ladder, “tell me when to stop.”
Mallory did as she was asked and reached out a hand. Not like she had a choice.
“Hold up,” Mallory said.
“Are you sure that’s the one? What do you hear?” Nana asked.
Mallory hesitated, moving her hands over a few other spines.
“You have to lose all sense of where you are. The right book will warm and call you to it—listen for the cue.”
Mallory felt for the spines once more, but there was no sensation aside from annoyance.
“Open your eyes.” Nana smiled at Mallory. “You’re getting closer; you should be proud. Your finder skills are strengthening by the day.”
She plucked a book from the shelf.
Mallory snorted. The last three days in a row she’d chosen the wrong book, and the only book that ever sang to her was the same wrong book: The Secret Garden. Somehow, she didn’t see that as an improvement.
Nana swung on her with a speed that belied her age. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. It’s unbecoming. You found the missing diary, didn’t you?”
The journal had been found in the attic during a murder mystery game only months before. Simza’s fictional diary had been at the center of the game’s fake plot and, while the game had turned out to be a disaster, they hoped there might be something worthwhile in the real journal that had accidentally been uncovered. There was only one problem: They couldn’t read it.
“Fat lot of good that did—it’s gibberish.”
“It’s not gibberish. It’s written in another language. Our ancestors were travelers who spoke many languages. Your paternal great-grandmother came from Europe like me.”
“Well, why don’t you read it, then?”
“Because it’s not French. Did you call the historical society about translating it?” Nana tugged on the volume that was to Mallory’s left and lifted it down.
Mallory had called twice about translating the fifty-five-year-old journ
al and had only finally received a response yesterday.
“Yes, I’m meeting her tomorrow. She wants to see it before agreeing.”
“Good. Now, one day, my dear, you will hone your gift and it will all click.”
Nana’s tone could change on a dime. Mallory shrugged her shoulders and resumed her seat at the kitchen bar.
“I think if my gift were going to strengthen, it would have done it by now. Besides, I’m not sure it matters to me.” Mallory shook her head. “I’m pretty happy without the responsibility.”
Nana looked scandalized.
“You are a Vianu—a gifted bohemian woman—and you have a talent for instinct.” Nana put her hands on her hips stubbornly. “Ignoring your gift doesn’t absolve you of responsibility, and if you ever say that again, I shall be forced to serve you up a lesson.”
Nana’s lessons involved concoctions and tonics meant to torture. When Mallory was little and refused to wash her hands, Nana would rub a salve on them that made her hands green and itchy. Needless to say, the effect didn’t go away until she applied soap.
“And my responsibility is to solve my parents’ murders, is that it?” Mallory asked, her tone bleak.
“Possibly. We all have a greater purpose.”
Mallory walked to the window. Her shadowy reflection stared back at her. Despite all the practice, nothing had changed when it came to her gift notwithstanding Nana’s continual optimism. Heck, even Nana’s adopted daughter, feisty Danior, who was eight years Mallory’s junior, showed more promise than her, and she wasn’t even a Vianu. Although they suspected she was of Roma heritage, since she bore a strange resemblance to them.
Speaking of that resemblance, Nana’s reflection joined Mallory’s in the window and she noted the similarities between them. They were both petite and defiant with dark skin and contrasting light eyes—the same eyes that all the Vianu women had, even Danior, although Danior had partial heterochromia so her left eye was a little more blue than green.
Nana gave them a slight squeeze before dropping her hands to her side. “I know you’re afraid, and that’s all right. Just remind yourself every now and then that you’re not alone. Our ancestors came from the Far East, a motherland of ancient mysticism steeped in Vedic magic, and they will help if called upon—perhaps that’s why the diary turned up.”
Mallory watched her reflection in the window as she answered her. One of her spirited friends glowed in the background. It was the same ghost who’d led her to the diary during the Carnival Murder Mystery Game. Mallory had the feeling she was tied to the Manor. Sometimes she wondered if it was her mother, but she couldn’t be sure. If it were her mother, why the heck wouldn’t she speak. But unlike the cold chill most spirits gave off, there was just something so nurturing and protective about her, like a warm wool blanket that wrapped tight around Mallory when she was scared.
Puffing out her cheeks, Mallory exhaled, “How can they help?”
“Just pay attention, Malhala. They’re the little voices in your ears, the thoughts that pop into your mind, your sudden inspirations. They won’t spell things out for you. There are lessons you must learn on your own, but they will be there to guide you.”
Mallory looked right at the ghost, “Perhaps the ones assisting me are mute or give poor advice?”
The ghost disappeared.
“Now, you’re teasing.”
Mallory and Nana walked back to the kitchen island and Nana snorted and opened the book. Of course, the book opened to the exact spell Nana intended. Nana glanced down at the ingredients listed in the book, grabbed a pair of scissors from the drawer, and headed to the herb wall. Picking her way through the pots of herbs, she collected what she needed: basil, echinacea, and chamomile.
Nana had a much larger garden outside. She was a master herbalist and loved growing her own organic plants to use in the remedies she sold at Peace and Light, the new age shop in town.
She switched the kettle off and poured the hot water into two white tea cups. “You said you had a nightmare. You dreamt of your parents again?” Nana asked, softening her tone.
Mallory knew what she was up to. Tea readings were Nana’s specialty.
“No. This dream was different. I think it might have been a vision.”
Nana shot her a nervous look and motioned for her to drink her tea.
Mallory picked up the fine white cup and walked to the window to face the darkness of the lake. She had lost her parents eighteen years ago. Every now and then she dreamt of her time with them—at least she thought they were real memories. The one memory she couldn’t seem to forget was how her mother had abandoned her at Nana’s in the middle of the night—never to be seen or heard from again.
It was getting lighter now, and the details of the dream were fading. Nana walked up behind her, waiting for her response.
Mallory’s throat tightened even as she said it. “Someone was killed here at the Manor. I couldn’t see who, but the man who did it—the man holding the diary—he was the one who hurt my mother. I just know it.”
“What did he look like?”
“That’s the frustrating part. I can’t remember. You know how dreams are. They’re so abstract and odd.”
“Maybe it was just a dream.”
Mallory looked down into her empty cup and tried to read leaves, but it felt more like a game of guess the shape than anything factual.
“There was one other thing. My mother kept saying something over and over. It seems silly now and yet it seemed so important in the dream.”
“What was it?”
“She said to find the mirror.”
2
I T WAS early in the morning but the resort was already humming thanks to the Bloggers Conference they were hosting.
Mallory waved to one of their more disgruntled guests, an attractive yet surly middle-aged man named Raymond Weasel, from the Mates of Mayhem mystery writers group. You could always trust him to be in a twist about something: cold coffee, rubbery eggs, pilling bedsheets. He’d booked the corner suite and treated the Manor as his own personal domain for the last four days straight. He was at the other end of a long corridor on the second floor and Mallory hoped he would keep going down the main staircase. Mallory paused and pretended to organize some books on the rotunda’s shelf as she greeted several more guests exiting their rooms.
After a moment everyone disappeared, and Mallory pulled on the book that opened the passage behind the shelf. She was used to traveling a different route than the guests. Like the rest of the staff and family, Mallory moved quietly through a maze of narrow passageways, dim stairways, and hidden doors in order to be as invisible as possible.
Caravan Manor offered fifteen bedrooms, which were almost always occupied, a carriage house and two caravans that were located on the property for guests who desired more seclusion. It was situated at the edge of the woods overlooking the beach. Contrary to Nana, who preferred the main floor socials, Mallory quite enjoyed her privacy and quiet time. Not that Mallory didn’t love running the Manor, but today she longed to stay in their third-story suite, which included a cozy library and a sitting room with a wrought-iron balcony that overlooked the lake and gardens. Alas, duty called.
Trotting down the second secret set of stairs, Mallory’s mind was focused on other things: the crystal chandeliers could use a dusting, the bedding in room five needed to be replaced, and Mallory needed to remember to ask Emilion if the squeaky boards on the porch had been fixed yet. Then she heard muffled voices. She paused to peek out the spyhole before entering the narrow hallway. The Manor had earned a reputation for its hidden passages, which is why they were careful to disappear and reappear when no one was looking. People loved trying to find them and, since Nana didn’t want the guests using them, being discreet was a must—especially this week, when they had a group of vloggers in-house attending the conference sessions. These new age YouTube celebs loved snooping for secrets and juicy gossip—their five minutes of fame depended on it. Th
e last thing the ladies of the manor needed was another incident like they’d had at the Carnival party.
Through the spyhole, all looked normal. The oil painting of a Romani violin player hung on the wood-paneled wall directly across from Mallory just as it always did, but the pocket doors to the Parlor that usually stood open were firmly closed. Mallory listened for only a moment before moving on. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass the guests during some sort of heated exchange. Mallory kept going down the hall and exited through a closet. She didn’t like to use this door because it was so close to the main foyer, and the Victorian Ladies Society would be headed for their tea anytime now. Hopefully they would think Mallory was just grabbing something out of the broom closet if they caught her.
Most guests coming to the Caravan Manor chose to be picked up from the parking lot in town by the manor’s driver, Emilion Grastari—Danior’s on-again-off-again boyfriend. In true Romani spirit, he wore an open chested pirate-styled shirt that showed off his muscled pecs, which were only exaggerated by the embroidered vest and chains that framed the muscles. His bovver boots were scuffed and manly, and his hair was chic and grungy—most often pulled up into a man bun. He was a good sport about playing the part. He even donned the eyeliner. She’d ridden along a few times and found it more than amusing. He would introduce himself, offer to take the luggage, and lead them to one of their brightly painted caravan transports. He would then steer the horses up the winding road and through the massive wrought-iron gates to Caravan Manor.
A loud bang split the air. Mallory turned her head toward the entry foyer’s front desk where Raymond now stood looking angry and Lise Trix, the guest services greeter, stood looking irritated.
“Why the hell not?” he said.
Mallory ran her hand over the elegantly carved newel post as Nana stepped behind the counter. “Hello, Raymond,” she said. “What brings you to the reception desk so early?”
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