Ghosts and Goblins and Murder Read online

  Ghosts and Goblins and Murder

  Fiona Fleming Cozy Mysteries #4

  Patti Larsen

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2017 by Patti Larsen

  Find out more about me at

  http://www.pattilarsen.com/

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Cover art (copyright) by Christina G. Gaudet. All rights reserved.

  http://castlekeepcreations.com/

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  Chapter One

  Three kids under the age of ten crowded the front of the table with their hopeful expressions and plates held high. I dutifully doled out chunks of Mom’s elaborate creation, the cake now a ravaged wasteland of Halloween décor goodness, and grinned as the cuteness patrol in costume all said, “thank you!” at exactly the same moment before bobbing off with their second helping.

  So adorable. And I was delighted I didn’t have to take them—or their pending sugar high—home with me, thank you very much.

  Petunia grumbled at my feet, shifting her weight from one front paw to the other, licking her lips in that smacking way of hers, lines of drool dripping from her muzzle. One thin strand landed on the toe of my pointed witch shoe, gleaming in the industrial lighting of the community center’s fluorescents, dark brown eyes bulging more than usual. The rims of white showed so much I worried she might pop a socket.

  “You, missy,” I said, shaking the serving spatula at her, “have had enough cake to last you the rest of your pug lifetime.”

  She moaned, her fat fawn body wriggling inside her ghost costume. I should have left her home at my B&B of the same name, but I didn’t have the heart. Especially when Mom went and bought her the adorable outfit I’d dutifully stuffed Petunia into.

  One of the kids squealed, the smack of cake hitting the floor sending the pug skittering off, trailing her white hem behind her, already stained along the bottom by previous encounters with the black and red icing Mom slathered on her creepy diorama design. I sighed, not even bothering to call after my dog this time, knowing it wouldn’t do me any good. Mind you, neither would the diabetic coma she’d fall into if I let this go on much longer.

  And the farting? Would be legendary.

  Daisy looked up from a small group of kids who she directed in a game of apple bobbing and grinned like she was having the time of her life. My best friend’s new venture into event planning had quickly overtaken her short stint in real estate. I never did get the full story behind her rapid flight from the offices of Pat and Ashley Champville three short weeks into her job. But I’d heard enough rumors about accidental pricing discounts on legal documents that amounted to a very inexpensive purchase I knew better than to ask for further details.

  It seemed, though, after bouncing from one career opportunity to the next that Daisy had finally found something she truly loved. She looked stunning in her princess dress and tiara, fairytale heroine leading the kids around like she’d cast a spell on them while their happy parents looked on. This Halloween party had been meant to happen at my place, her first self-created event. But it had grown in size and attendance so quickly she’d had no trouble convincing our mayor to let her use the community center at town hall instead.

  Just as well. I couldn’t imagine the cleanup at my B&B if I had to host all these kids and their sticky fingers.

  More squealing, this time off to the right where Daisy had set up the Tunnel of Terror. The curtained off pathway hosted volunteers inside who wickedly scared the living crap out of the kids as they maneuvered their way through. There was a lineup, naturally. I shook my head, smiling as I turned to dish up more cake to a small turtle and his fireman companion, knowing that my dad was likely having as much fun as the kids he scared.

  Who knew the tough-as-nails man’s man John Fleming, former sheriff and all around tower of stoic sternness, could giggle like a little kid?

  I sighed over the remnants of Mom’s beautiful cake, the red velvet interior smelling divine, the last few headstones and a single fondant tree remaining of the graveyard scene, though the crispy castle and the moat of pudding remained. I considered stealing a piece to take home as Petunia waddled her way back to me, sitting at my feet once more, burping abruptly before panting at me like she wouldn’t be throwing up later.

  I felt a bit badly for our mayor, Olivia Walker, and her photo op booth, but honestly, she came dressed in her typical suit, her only nod to the holiday an orange shirt under her dark brown dress jacket. Oh, and a pair of tiny bat earrings I’m sure she had custom made. She’d been under so much pressure I worried about her, saw the strain in her face as she sat very still and stiff, sleek black hair a match to her rigid expression, smiling like it was plastered on. It must have irked her to be ignored, the kids screaming and running and generally having a great time that didn’t require anything as formal as a sit down with our mayor. Like she thought she was Halloween Santa or something.

  Still, she’d done so much for our town since she took over it was hard to judge her. Okay, not so hard, I’d done some myself, fair enough. Her drive to attract tourism to Reading had succeeded, but not without cost. Things were booming, to the point our town overflowed with visitors, though I wondered sometimes if we might lose sight of who we were if the kind of growth and expansion happening continued at the rate it was. My friend, Jared Wilkins, was at wit’s end these days, though it was a happy set of troubles to have too many projects to build and not enough workers or time to get them done. At least his father’s terrible business practices didn’t hurt in the end. Jared made everything right that he could, and considering his dad was an utter fraud and a jerk, having a local boy step up meant a lot.

  I dolloped some cake onto a little pirate’s plate, grinning. “Argh, Captain. How’s the party?”

  She looked at me like I’d cracked my walnut and scooted off. At least I tried. Just like Olivia had, bringing up all the pirate treasure stuff despite the fact the hoard of Captain Reading had long been debunked. The idea that the founder of our town hid his gold and jewels somewhere in the area had long been rumored, and equally contested. Olivia’s statue to Reading and her summer spent doing her best to use the old wives’ tale to her advantage had pretty much bombed.

  I shrugged off the fact my now deceased Grandmother Iris left me clues to that very treasure. There was a good chance it was a goose chase and I’d pretty much shelved it for the time being. Without any kind of lead past the scrap of map and the doubloon sitting in the music box she left me, I had, at best, bits and pieces of what amounted to a fun story to tell.

  Except, of course, I hadn’t told anyone yet, outside of Daisy. Silly, but I loved having the secret to myself.

  The curtain in the far corner moved aside, the beads rattling as one of the parents departed, looking shaken but grinning. I rolled my eyes at myself, at the fortune teller booth and the second woman who emerged, dressed like some kind of gypsy who’d clearly been born colorblind and without anything resembling taste. Yes, it was Halloween. Except that the few times I’d seen her around town, Sadie Hatch had been dressed pretty much just like she was right now.

  I quickly looked away, hoping she wouldn’t notice me, though I knew it was rude. There was just something about her that gave me the creeps. Wh
en she’d moved to Reading a year ago, Daisy begged me to go with her to a séance or something equally ridiculous and I’d turned her down. But from what I’d heard the older woman who claimed to be some kind of psychic was doing a cracking business, so good for her.

  I stared down at the cake again, mouth watering. Surely I could just sneak a piece. Mom would make me one of my very own, I knew that without asking. She’d be delighted, in fact. There was nothing Lucy Fleming loved more than being in the kitchen, creating with confections. But it wasn’t the promise of a cake later that appealed.

  It was cake now.

  “Time is passing,” a voice said, deep and raspy. I turned with a little gasp to come face-to-face with none other than our local soothsayer. Sadie’s thin lips were turned down, her eyebrows drawn into thin arches over her sagging lids, pale eyes washed out but sharp and observant. She waved one hand at me, the tinkle of her bangles giving me goosebumps. Or maybe it was the clashing red sash she wore with that hideous green and purple striped skirt, topped by a dark orange blouse and a shawl of rainbow hues?

  I’d be going with that for the trigger.

  “Cake?” Yes, I seriously just offered her a slice, the spatula hovering, a weak smile on my lips as I silently begged her to just leave already.

  She ignored my suggestion, leaning closer, the smell of incense strong in her gray hair. Sadie came maybe to my shoulder, but there was bulk to her under her clothes, and for some odd reason intimidation rose off her in waves.

  “Your window closes,” she said then. “For progeny of your own.” She leaned away, sniffed, nodded. “Act within two years or you are doomed to a life alone.”

  I gaped, spatula dripping red crumbs onto Petunia’s head, absorbing what the old woman said, a ball of cold shock bursting in my stomach.

  She did not just tell me my biological clock was ticking.

  I swear she was this close to being smacked in the face with cake. But before I could overcome my stunned lack of ability to act, a young man approached in a hurry, meeting my eyes in a brief, embarrassed flicker before he grasped her arm and tugged.

  “Grandma,” he said. “The Cortez’s are here.”

  Sadie swept past him, shaking off his hand, hurrying without seeming to toward the tall, handsome couple waiting at the door. Her departure was as abrupt as her arrival, like she’d delivered that hideously inappropriate message for my sake or because the stupid spirits told her to or some other absolutely horrendous excuse to make a total stranger feel like crap about herself and was now done with me, leaving me to crumble like a piece of the very cake I served into a mound of regretful and wailing horror of where I’d failed.

  The most frustrating part of the entire encounter, despite knowing better and being a self-made woman with her own choices and life to live and screw what anyone else thought including a hideous old fortune teller who could kiss my ass?

  It worked. As I watched her interact with the grim-faced, bearded man and the softly weeping woman, their height and slim fitness and glowing golden skin a contrast to her hunched pale creepiness, I felt myself wither inside.

  There was only one thing that could make things worse. And, naturally, because that’s my luck, right? That one thing happened a heartbeat after Sadie exited with the couple following, her grandson slouching quietly after her. As I fought tears and frustration and the need to throw the spatula in my hand to the ground, a stunning blonde in a dress, hat and shoes that cost more than my jewelry collection stepped into my line of sight. Looked my thrown-together variation of her costume up and down. And smiled.

  Vivian French just had to come to the party as a witch, too.

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  Chapter Two

  I knew what she was thinking, the nasty piece of work who pretended she owned Reading because her parents left her their stupid bakery. It was written all over her smug ass face, and made my stomach clench in anxious response. Not because I considered her more successful than I was. Petunia’s was incredibly busy. Sure, I might not have had three locations thriving in other states—big whoop, who needed the work? No, it had nothing to do with the competitive itch I refused to scratch when it came to Vivian and me.

  Instead, it was a much older hurt that woke in that moment, one I had no idea I still clung to but likely would have admitted if I was willing to examine why I really didn’t like her.

  We were dressed as witches. Both of us. Again. The re-creation of our seventh grade conflict—and honestly, as far as I can recall, the first time she bullied me personally—we’d come to Jana Hamlin’s Halloween party dressed like witches. Sure, Vivian had a hate on for me since I’d broken her nose the year before, defending Daisy who didn’t even realize the mean girl blonde was being cruel to her. I’d seen it, though, acted without thinking and made a best friend that day.

  I guess I should have expected retaliation. It never came, lulled me into a false sense of victory. At least, until that night. The flashback was so vivid I felt myself shudder.

  I’d begged until Mom bought me the coveted outfit I’d seen hanging in a store window in Burlington. Couldn’t wait to show it off. Walked through the door at Jana’s, strolled into the living room. And froze in stunned silence at the sight of blonder, prettier, skinnier, more popular Vivian French. Dressed in my exact costume.

  I flinched at the memory that flashed through my mind. And though it seemed to take ages for it to unwind, I know it was literally a second, the briefest of moments. Enough, though, to churn my knotted stomach into a cesspool of dread though the resulting verbal and emotional assault she’d clearly perfected elsewhere as fresh to my twenty-nine-year-old heart as if it was happening right now, all over again.

  Didn’t help I was already vulnerable, thanks to Sadie Damned Hatch, did it?

  Vivian tossed her ringletted blonde hair, the sparkles over her eyebrows catching the horribly harsh light as she arched one at me, augmented lashes and blue eyes making her look like an artificial creation, not human at all. Cold, crisp, judging. And in a moment of weakness where neither of us said a word, I failed myself. Let her judge me, absorbed her disdain, made it my own.

  Because I’m an idiot like that sometimes.

  When she finally spoke, her slow up and down intake of my outfit making me feel shabby and worthless—thanks, ego, I really needed that smack in the head—her cool, disinterested tone shoved me further down the hole I’d found myself in.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  “What an… interesting cake choice.” Of course she’d go after Mom’s creation. She’d been nothing but a critical crab ass since she found out Mom had started creating confections for those who would have normally bought from Vivian’s bakery. The self-anointed Queen of Wheat (okay, I anointed her that because it was funny at the time) and owner of French’s Handmade Bakery, hated that my talented mother might cut into her business.

  That at least got my temper up, cut through the haze of self-judgment I’d been wallowing in since the old soothsayer had the nerve to slice my confidence and happiness in half.

  “The kids love it.” I was pretty proud of my own deadpan, level tone. Good for me.

  Vivian’s delicate shrug ruffled her floof of a skirt, making her tight corset crinkle faintly, a few sparkles falling from her narrow, tanned shoulders.

  “Common tastes,” she said. “Typical of Reading.”

  Wow. She’d find out just how common when I punched her in the face and broke her nose again. I don’t condone violence, honestly. Didn’t stop me from clinging to the recollection of smacking her a good one—ah, memories, how fun—while she went on.

  “I see your own tastes weren’t improved during your New York hiatus.” She did the up and down again, a faint smile artfully created, cultivated. Hit the mark, too, and I just barely cut off my involuntary reaction to smooth my layered scarf skirt, my teased hair. Not giving her the satisfaction even if I choked on it.

  I didn’t comment. I knew if I opened my mouth to speak, my v
oice would shake and I was not giving her that. My entire existence narrowed down to the two of us, a tunnel of darkness in my vision leading only to the stunning vision of Vivian French, my heart beating so fast I felt sweat begin to moisten my upper lip.

  No. I might have been unravelling as we stared at each other and I might spend the evening crying over cake after the fact, but she would not see me crack here and now. Not ever.

  “Well,” she said at last, a million years later. Was that disappointment in her eyes? Then I’d succeeded. Yay, Fleming. “Now that I’ve seen what Reading’s new event coordinator has to offer, I’ll be going.” More disdain, this time for Daisy.

  It was the first moment I took firm hold of myself and asked what Vivian was up to. Why was she here, standing in front of me, doing her best to belittle and unnerve me when we’d mostly avoided each other like the plague since I moved home?

  It was enough to crack the surface of the poor me bubble of darkness I’d been falling into, and jerked me back into reality.

  “Besides,” she said, smile widening into something distinctly savage, “I’m meeting the lovely Sheriff Turner for coffee and I’d hate to be late.”

  Not my Crew. Yes, I thought of him as mine even though he hadn’t asked me out yet and I’d been so patient with the handsome widower who seemed to like me, but damn him. Damn him. Coffee with Vivian, of all people? Like, a date? When he’d promised me he’d ask when he was ready, when he was done grieving his beloved wife?

  Choke.

  Vivian was a liar. The initial stab to the heart passed as quickly as my refusal to accept anything she said as truth shook me abruptly. It was there in her eyes, in the calculated way she watched me as she pushed each and every button she could dig up. She’d be mentioning my cheating ex, Ryan Richards, shortly, my failure and New York already part of the conversation. Or some other taunt to twist me into knots.