Stage Fright: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel
Date: 2022-08-29T07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Cozy Mystery; Audiobook
Description: An all new Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel by USA Today Bestselling author Dakota Cassidy. A middle-aged witch is hired to stage a reportedly haunted house for her real estate agent BFF, but her friend doesn't stand a ghost of a chance of selling the property unless they can solve a decades old murder! More details coming soon!

Stage Fright

BEWITCHING MIDLIFE CRISIS MYSTERIES

BOOK ONE

DAKOTA CASSIDY

Stage Fright Book 1

Bewitching Midlife Crisis Mysteries

Published 2022 by Dakota Cassidy

Copyright © 2022, Dakota Cassidy

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Dakota Cassidy.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is wholly coincidental. The names, characters, dialogue, and events in this book are from the author’s imagination and should not to be construed as real.

Manufactured in the USA.

Created with Vellum

Acknowledgments

Cover Artist: Renee George

Editor: Kelli Collins

Author’s Note

Hellloooo!

Welcome to Bewitching Midlife Crisis Mysteries, where being over fifty is phenomenal, empowering, and sometimes exhausting!

Please note, I’ve taken much artistic license with the various types of witches and thrown them all into a pot of witch’s stew—or is that brew?—and made up my own concoction of witch. If you know me, I’m sure you’re thinking, go figure, right?

Either way, this is my fictional take on witches in my equally fictional town of Buttermilk Bay, Massachusetts, where my intrepid sleuth, Evanora Lavinia Dark is over fifty, not without the inevitable aches and pains, yet still maintains a healthy zest for life and an appetite for solving a good mystery.

She’s left her corporate job full of stress and intestinal discord for her old hometown to open her own staging business. Much like me, Evan has a passion for decorating, but no formal training or degrees in design. She (again, like me) just loves a good throw pillow and even better, a good bargain throw pillow.

Thus, it seemed only natural for me to write an amateur sleuth with a love of decor.

On that note, thanks to all the YouTube designers (amateur and pro) for all the inspiration, and to all the HGTV shows I watch. Among just a few, No Demo Reno, Home Town, Unsellable Houses, Good Bones, Bargain Block, and naturally, my ultimate favorite, Fixer Upper. I’ve learned so much and I’m so grateful to have a channel to de-stress with when I need to come down from Investigation ID. LOL! But the biggest lesson I learned? Love what you love and the heck with what’s trendy and “out of style.” If you like duck wallpaper borders ala 1990, do it. You only live once!

Also, please note, the mystery in this book revolves around ancient history, but is totally made up. Complete fiction. So for all you history buffs, don’t shoot!

That said, I hope you enjoy the fun people of Buttermilk Bay and a strong, independent woman with solid female friendships, who’s empowered and living her life to the fullest, even with the ailments and challenges (can you say menopause) being over fifty can bring!

Stage Fright

If you want to know who unalived you, I'm your girl. Evanora Lavinia Dark at your service!

Heart attack/stroke/open-heart surgery survivor, new-lease-on-life starter, astral-projecting-ghost-talker.

And most importantly, a witch over fifty with bursitis, blood pressure meds, and zero effs to give.

I’m done with corporate life—or maybe it was done with me first— and after a life-changing stroke followed by a heart attack and a subsequent quadruple bypass. All this just before boarding a plane for my lifetime dream trip to Hawaii.

Clearly, it was time for a change.

So I moved back to my hometown and my passion. Interior design. I have no experience, no degrees in the field, but I jumped in with both feet and opened my own house staging business--Stage Right. Nowadays, you can find me happily decorating houses for my best friend, house flipper, and real estate agent, Fabiola Fabrizio.

Together, we’re determined to give our town, Buttermilk Bay, located in Massachusetts (not far from Salem) a facelift and bring in young families to stir up the economy. Little by little, people are beginning to take notice of my work and hiring me on the daily and that’s great for my bank account.

There’s only one problem. Ghosts. Sooo many ghosts. Ghosts I started to see after my bypass surgery (cliche, right?). Ghosts who were murdered and need my help to solve the mystery surrounding their deaths. Do you have any idea how hard it is to carry a fifty pound chandelier while a ghost is in your ear, hassling you to find their killer?

When a guy named Ferris Leopold is found dead at the house next door to the one I’m staging, it’s full steam ahead to solve his murder. Or is it? Ferris was a lowdown dirty, albeit petty thief in life and I’m struggling to set aside my morals in order to help him.

But as I dig deeper into Ferris’s past, meet a hot AF silver fox of a man, and explore my new powers in the process, I discover not everything is as it seems...

Chapter One

“Know what this room needs, Fab?”

My best friend since first grade, Fabiola Fabrizio, lifted a meticulously manicured eyebrow in question. She stared down at me while I lie on the floor of the house I’d just finished staging for her, hoping it would help stretch my leg and hip.

According to what I’d read on the Internet, it aided in easing the stabbing pain of my most recent affliction—bursitis.

Toad’s spit, bursitis hurts. The doctor who gave me a cortisone shot with a syringe the size of the Space Needle says it often happens to people who sit at a computer all day. While those days are now officially gone for me, the suck of my soul from my very core as an HR manager who sat at a computer all day is apparently on an extended stay and continues to haunt me.

“I don’t know what the room needs, but I know what you need. You need a physical therapist. I know a super cute one, by the way. Cute in a seventy-year-old way, if you don’t mind dentures and some liver spots. But everyone says he looks sixty,” Fab assured me with a wink, her thick lashes sweeping her cheek. “Sold him a house down on Old Bluff Road—twelve hundred square feet of oceanfront cottage. Beyond cute.”

I looked up into her midnight-dark eyes set in an olive complexion that never appeared to age. “When you say cottage, Fabiola Fabrizio, that’s code amongst you real estate agents for fixer-upper shack, right? Meaning, the price is outrageous for a house with dirt floors and the only real bennie is the ocean view?”

Fab curtsied, lifting her unlined red lips in a coy smile. “Sure, it needs a little work, maybe some updates, but Gerard knew what he was getting into when I sold it to him. I was Honest Abe about it. Plus, he has plenty of money to spare. What else does he have to do but put it to good use for renovations?”

I sat up on my elbows and shook my head at how disappointing the housing market was here. “Buying a house here in Massachusetts means you either have to be a millionaire or willing to roll up your sleeves and put in some elbow grease. So by updates, you mean the poor man’s cooking over an open fire in the backyard because the kitchen is nothing but two by fours and some studs?”

Fab put her hands on her hips. “If you must know, it’s a Bunsen burner in the guest bedroom, Smart Girl, but you’d be amazed what you can cook on a Bunsen burner if you’re hungry and motivated. Just ask Gerard.”

She wrinkled her nose at me, but she was still smiling like the cat who ate the canary as she checked her glossy dark hair in the gold oblong mirror in the entryway.

I laughed out loud with a snort and a shake of my head. Honestly, my BFF could sell breast implants at a dental convention. She was an amazingly good real estate agent and an even better house flipper. Both of which she’d turned into a profitable business all on her own.

In fact, she’s who’d convinced me to come back to our hometown of Buttermilk Bay. Not far from Salem, for those who are curious.

Anyway, if she’d conned someone into buying the “cottage” on Old Bluff, she’d done it using all the tools in her arsenal and her intense charm, because it was the very definition of a dive. An expensive dive, because everything on the ocean here in BB was overpriced, but still a dive.

“It’s beachfront, Evan. It wouldn’t matter if it was a pup tent. It’s on the beach. That’s real estate one-o-one. Have I taught you nothing?”

Since I’d moved back to Buttermilk Bay from Boston at the behest of my dearest friend, in order to start the next chapter of my life staging houses, I’d learned a lot about the whys and wherefores of real estate and house flipping.

One—beachfront property could have a house made of sticks on it with pine needles for a roof and someone would buy it.

Two: location, location, location.

I ran my hand over the faux vintage-inspired area rug, smoothing out the wrinkles, repeating the very words I’d just thought.

“You’ve taught me that you could sell dentures at a breast implant convention and that every night when I get into bed, I’m beyond grateful you’ve included me in your selling spree. I’m happy just to ride your coattails.”

Fab had always been the more adventurous of the two of us, so when she’d taken on the project of revitalizing Buttermilk Bay, our small, maybe even antiquated town, to bring in more commerce and young families, she’d gleefully accepted the challenge and invited me along for the ride with this whacky scheme of staging houses.

Of course, I was sort of at loose ends when she asked, for reasons I’m not sure I’m quite yet ready to reflect upon out loud.

Let’s just say, I lost my HR job of twenty-two years, two months and eight days and leave it at that for now, shall we?

Anyway, Fab had always loved Buttermilk Bay, and she’d proven that by coming home after college and planting roots, while I left and stayed left.

Er, stayed gone—in Boston, that is, until only last year. Which I suppose should make me the more adventurous one, seeing as I left home and went to a strange new city to live.

But the difference is, I’d chosen a safe HR position, eventually becoming a director while still sucking the soul from my very core, and Fab had struck out on her own, doing what she loved. First selling houses and starting her own real estate business, and then ten years ago, flipping houses.

As far as I was concerned, being self-employed was scary AF, as the kids say these days, and far more adventurous than I’d ever been, but Fab had excelled.

And I hoped to follow in her footsteps, now that I’d started Stage Right.

Which, by the by, was the very definition of scary AF.

“Hey,” she said on a tinkly giggle, settling on her haunches in front of me in heels, no less—a position I fervently envied, mind you. “You’re not riding anything. You’re starting a new chapter in your life with a little help from your best friend. You’re writing a new beginning. It’s called Over Fifty and Stinkin’ Amazing, by Evanora Lavinia Dark: A Guide to Living Life Your Own Way After Almost Dying.”

It’s true. At fifty, I’d almost died.

Chuckling, I responded, “That’s a pretty long title. Don’t they say titles shouldn’t be longer than five words?”

She shook her dark head at me, the curtain of her thick black hair swishing against her official navy-blue real estate blazer as she rose on graceful legs. “Not when you’re over fifty. When you’re over fifty, you can have whatever-length title you want. It says so in the Over Fifty Guide to Living Your Life Free of the Chains that Bind.”

“I think you’d better not apply for any publishing jobs,” I teased, holding my hand out to her.

She grabbed it and helped yank me upward, pulling me into a hug. “Have I told you how happy I am you’re here and that I no longer have to have girls’ night margaritas over Skype while I’m in my sweats and a baggy T-shirt?”

I hugged her back, just as happy to be here, believe you me. “I’ve been back for almost a year, Fab. You’ve told me that often.”

She gripped my shoulders with her perfectly manicured hands and squeezed. “I think we’ve both learned, we can never say it enough because you just never know.” Then she pulled me into another tight hug. “Don’t ever do that to me again, Evan,” she whispered, her tone fierce. “Not ever.”

I leaned back in her hug and shot her a teasing smile. “You mean have a stroke followed by a heart attack, a quadruple bypass and a carotid artery clean out just before boarding a plane to my dream vacation in Hawaii?”

Her lips thinned and her velvety dark eyes narrowed. “Still too soon, BFF. You almost died, Evan. Died. You almost kicked the bucket and left me here all alone with nothing but the wolves at the door.”

I threw the back of my hand up over my forehead, my tone light and teasing when I said, “The wolves? Drama be thy middle name.” Then I sobered. “Listen, if I can laugh about it, why can’t you?”

Her eyes grew watery. “Because you didn’t see you hooked up to more machines than a machinist’s shop holds, while tubes came out of every orifice on your person and you were a lovely shade of chalk white. That’s why. It was three weeks of sheer terror I choose to take very seriously, even if you won’t.”

I hated that I’d frightened everyone. Hated that they’d been inconvenienced because I’d worked myself almost to death. It was my fault.

Back then, I hardly ever ate more than one meal a day and that had usually been on the fly. I fueled myself with not much more than coffee and Twizzlers. I worked long hours and hadn’t had a vacation since my son left the nest—which was why I was going to Hawaii. Because I needed a break.

I dabbed at her eye with my thumb. “Stop or you’ll ruin your perfect makeup. I’m sorry, okay? I know it was a scary time for everyone who wasn’t flat on their backs, higher than a kite on pain meds. I’m sorry I put you all through that, but it’s been almost three years, Fab. Time to let go.”

I can’t tell you how grateful I was for the people in my life. My father, Fab and her mother, Mama Fab, my son Callum. They’d all sat vigil after my surgery while I healed, and I was grateful, but I was also about moving forward.

She pointed to the jagged scar between my not-so perky breasts, still ugly and a little pink. “Tell Mama that, would you? She hassles me every time I tell her you’re staging a house for me. She thinks I work you too hard.”

Fab’s mother was like a mother to me, too. She’d welcomed me to the fold from the very first day my best friend had brought me home to her house for a snack (which had turned into a four-course meal, as it always does with anyone Italian) and I’d been part of the Fabrizio clan ever since.

I vehemently shook my head. “Nuh-uh. If I do that, she won’t bring me any more Tagliatelle Al Ragu. No dice. I love you, but not enough to sacrifice my pasta.”

Now she laughed, her giggle returning to its light, airy tone. “All I’m saying is, I’m glad you’re back home where you belong and that you’ve decided to do what you were meant to do and that you’re doing it with me.”

I squeezed her hand and nodded. “I’m glad, too.”

I looked around at the cute three-bedroom, two-bath house Fab had so painstakingly, beautifully flipped and I’d only just finished staging to prepare for sale, and smiled.

Decorating was my jam—it’s always been my passion. Throw pillows and rugs, candles and vases, fill my soul like almost nothing else. Other than my son, Callum, that is.

I won’t deny I love pretty things. I’m an aesthetics girl through and through. It doesn’t have to cost the earth, but if it makes me smile, I’ve probably given in to it and purchased it.

Often, it was my solace when I was stressed from work. I don’t have a degree in design, no formal training or fancy internships under designers. Only my love of a good bargain and the joy of making a home feel cozy and well-loved.

Now it’s my livelihood, and things were going pretty darn good thanks to the work Fabiola threw my way, along with the recommendations she’d given other house flippers and fellow agents looking to spruce up a home to ready for sale.

I hoped to rent an office if things kept moving the way they were instead of working out of my renovated mobile home. I’d sort of appropriated it from my deceased father (I have two dads) and called it my own.

When I first moved back, I invested my substantial severance and savings into Stage Right rather than buy a house—which, like I said, costs a bloody fortune here in Buttermilk Bay.

That left little to buy a stick-built home if I planned to eat and pay my bills, should things go belly up with a new business. I hoped to have a long life now that I had a patched-up heart. My savings and hush money were good, but they weren’t forever good if I didn’t live modestly.

So I lay claim to my deceased father’s mobile home, already bought and paid for, in the sweet little mobile home park where he’d once stashed his treasures (more on that later). Completely renovated it and made it my tiny two-bedroom two-bathroom palace with a free-standing tub overlooking the ocean.

Wildflower Meadows by the Sea was an adorable little over-fifty-five park, nestled in a tree-lined burg, and nothing like what comes to mind when you think “mobile home.”

There are no meth-heads or people who sell guns for the cartel, housed in rusty metal boxes smelling of cigarette smoke and stale beer. Well, unless you count Fergus McGee. I mean, he doesn’t smoke meth. No-no. He does, however, smell like stale beer and that’s only due to his ale choices—they all stink, mostly because he’s always trying some new craft brew he made to save a buck and keep “the man” from getting his tax dollars.

But for the most part, Wildflower Meadows by the Sea is nestled on a sweet patch of winding roads with a decent amount of space between mobile homes that feature backyards, landscaped common areas filled with flowers in the spring and summer, and lots and lots of retired folks over seventy.

Making me one of the youngest residents, but welcomed by proxy due to my father’s gregarious nature.

I’d never have expected to find my cultured, well-groomed, maybe even a little snobby father had a mobile home, but if he had to have one, this cute little ’90s Redman suited him.

Anyhow, that’s how I started Stage Right. Saving on the purchase of a house gave me the money for an enormous storage unit and plenty of shopping finds. Gosh, that had been a blast, buying inventory for various staging projects. Lots of antique road trips with Fab, and sometimes Mama Fab, too.

“Hey,” Fab said with a nudge and a look of concern. “Where are you?”

I waved her off and smiled, stretching my tired arms. “I was just thinking about how good it is to be home. Now, lemme give the place one more sweep to be sure everything’s perfect for the photographer and we’ll go grab some dinner, ’kay?”

Fab brushed lint from the rug off my black T-shirt. “Done.”

I gave the open-concept living room and kitchen one last look, satisfied with the flow of muted colors and continuity of my European farmhouse theme. It was a personal favorite of mine to style. Lots of neutral shades of taupe, cream and some charcoal black thrown in.

I grabbed my purse, sitting on the distressed wood table beneath a whitewashed wood chandelier. I checked the thick black chain securing it to the ceiling to be sure it was sturdy.

“What do you feel like eating tonight?”

She checked her lipstick in the mirror and winked. “German?”

“Because of Jorge or because you love sauerkraut and schnitzel?”

Jorge Durchenwald had recently moved to Buttermilk Bay and opened a delightful German café called Schnitzel Haus, and it was an enormous hit. Not only with the locals, but with my gorgeous friend, Fabiola.

She giggled and slung her purse over her shoulder. “Because muscles and sauerkraut. Sooo many muscles.” As she made her way to the black Dutch door, she peered over her shoulder at me. “Wait. We got to gabbing about everything but the original subject. Before we go indulge in sauerbraten and spätzle, what does this place need?”

I tilted my head, a little distracted for some reason. “Huh?”

“You said this place needed something.”

I looked around at the serene setting, inhaling the scent of new house. “Oh, right! Glad you reminded me. Whimsy. It needs whimsy.”

“Whimsy,” she repeated, deadpan, her olive skin glowing beneath the setting sun of early fall.

Fab gave me that look often. She didn’t share my love of decorating. She was just as happy with nothing more than a boring beige couch and an ugly sherpa blanket to keep her warm while she binged on Netflix.

Nodding, I ran to the last big red tote left to be packed up in my old Chevy truck marked “throws” and pulled out a black and cream-colored blanket with fringed edges.

I held it up and sighed a happy sigh. “Duh. What have I always told you about staging?”

She rolled her eyes, and teased, “You want clients to imagine themselves curled up on a couch with a blanket and a book in front of a roaring fire, and that means adding whimsical items. Blah, blah, blah. I’d mock you, but apparently it sells houses and who am I to rain on this cash parade?”

“Exactly, Grasshopper.” I grinned, splaying the blanket over the edge of the white slipcovered couch, letting its bottom half fall gracefully to the floor. I brushed my hands together. “Perfect. Now, let’s go find Jorge and all his muscles.”

“Are you Evanora Lavinia Dark?” a meek voice asked.

I fought a groan.

No. Not now. I closed my eyes and inhaled, clenching my fists in the hope it would go away. I’d had a long day and it was a miracle I was getting out of here before midnight, let alone dinner.

I didn’t want to deal with this today.

Not that I mind, let’s be clear. But I’m starving.

Someone cleared their throat and repeated with a bit more authority in their tone, “I repeat, are you Evanora Lavinia Dark?”

My shoulders sagged as I turned in the direction of the voice.

And there it was. Plain as the day is long, sitting on the chunky wood mantel above the white and gray fieldstone fireplace I’d personally distressed and stained.

A ghost.

“Well?” he asked, his deep chocolate eyes piercing mine. “Are you?”

Crap.

Crap, crap, crappity, crap.

Okay, so here’s the scoop. My name is Evanora Lavinia Dark and I’m a witch. Not a broom-riding, cauldron-bubbling, Halloween-Hocus-Pocus, cast-wicked-spells witch. I’m not even really a Wiccan witch.

Alas, I’m Wimpy Witch. I’m a weak one at best. But if we have to compare, I’m more Practical Magic witch.

I am, however, what some old schoolers call a kitchen witch.

You know, an herbs-and-essential-oils, creates-mild-magic witch? Emphasis on mild.

My mom was the real-deal witch, according to my father. Spells, potions, making things disappear. She was that kind of witch.

I allegedly inherited some power from my mother’s side of the family, all of whom are almost always unavailable for comment on my heritage and how exactly it affects me.

Except for my great aunt Tuppence, but we haven’t heard from her since dad number one died.

Either way, my magic is—or was—mild to say the least. I could whip up home remedies, a potion, healing oils (though, I sure hadn’t figured out how to help my bursitis) every now and again, etcetera.

Then all that changed. Big time.

After my open-heart surgery, I became a kitchen-slash-talk-to-ghosts-I-can-see-as-clear-as-day-and-who-need-me-to-solve-a-crime witch.

Or what some in my circles might call a hedge witch.

Again, I’m Evanora Lavinia Dark.

A witch.

A tired (though happily so), over-fifty (okay, fifty-three), house-staging, bursitis-riddled, ghost-seeing, crime-solving witch.

Pleasure to meet you.

Chapter Two

“Well?” the entity all but tapped his toes in impatience. “Is that you?”

Straightening my shoulders, I reluctantly nodded, my stomach growling in hunger. “It is.”

I made a promise to myself when the ghost sightings began that I’d do my best to help any ghost who approached me. No matter how inconvenient, no matter the time, day or night.

But man, they didn’t make it easy. I was in the headspace of schnitzel and red cabbage, not the afterlife.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Fab stop cold and close the front door, letting out a forlorn sigh. “You’re not just talking to hear yourself talk, are you?”

She knew the answer, but I indulged her because she asked the same question every time we were ghost-crashed.

“I wish.”

“We’re not going to see Jorge and all his muscles tonight, are we?” she asked as she made her way across the light oak hardwood floor to the sofa, scanning the room as though she might see what I was seeing.

I winced at her in apology. “We might still make it. You never know. Maybe this ghost just lost a shoe or his razor or something, and this time I’ll solve the mystery faster than you can say spaetzle.”

I was almost positive that wasn’t true, but a girl could hope.

Fab tipped her head back and laughed as she plopped down on the couch. “Yeah, like all the other times, right?” The minute her butt hit the cushion, she looked at me with a worried glance before hopping back up with a visible shudder as though she’d been stabbed with a hot poker. “Eep! Am I sitting on him?”

Now I chuckled. “No, honey. He’s by the fireplace.”

“I sure won’t mind if you tell her I wouldn’t hate it if she sat on me,” the ghost said with an amused laugh and a lascivious wink.

He had a very light Boston accent, lilting and gentle, despite his crass remark

Pointing a warning finger at his gaunt face, I threatened, “Don’t get fresh or I’ll ship you off to the light without a second thought, buddy.”

I can’t really do that. I don’t have that kind of power. I’m not the kind of witch who can summon demons or send people into what’s been referred to as the “light.”

Though, since this all began, seeing ghosts, that is, it’s my understanding that by helping a soul who won’t cross until they’ve handled their unfinished business makes for good karma.

I dunno. I don’t know if I believe in karma. I don’t know the rules or if there even are any rules. This whole thing has been banana splits.

I realize it sounds like a trope in a book, or a bad Lifetime movie, but I didn’t start seeing ghosts until after my open-heart surgery. I don’t even know why I started seeing them to begin with.

At first, I honestly thought it was the drugs I was on—and so did everyone else when I began talking to someone sitting at the edge of my hospital bed no one else in the room could see.

But more on that later. Suffice it to say, I can only see and hear ghosts and offer earthly aide if possible—which I totally want to do. I want to help, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have questions.

Like, how they keep finding me, or why they found me in the first place, but I’m really trying to learn and understand as I go.

Anyway, I really wasn’t any threat to whoever Floaty McFloaterson was, but he didn’t know that, did he?

My ghost immediately piped down, busying himself walking through walls, and Fab relaxed a bit, sitting back down and crossing her legs at the ankles.

“Ask him if he likes your whimsy,” she teased.

I chuckled, though I’m not one-hundred percent sure Fab isn’t just pretending to be okay with my ghosting and internally, she’s really freaked out, but she hides it so as not to upset me. So I won’t feel like more of a misfit that I already did simply being a witch.

Despite her glamorous outer shell, one that leads most people to believe she’s only into fashion, hair, and makeup, Fab’s façade is just that—her facade.

I mean, she does love makeup and hair and all those fun things—so do I. Where we part ways are her reading and television interests.

Fab’s actually a huge sci-fi/fantasy/paranormal geek. She loves it all, from Star Trek to a writer named Terry Pratchett. To believe in what’s happening to me is akin to one of her shows becoming a reality—and that’s a little freaky. Especially when it’s happening to your best friend.

And holy ghosts, was it ever freaky at first.

I mean, wow-wow-wow, seeing an entity for the first time had been nothing short of spectacularly nutballs, and it scared me spitless.

Yet, I’d adjusted over time, and Fab tried to adjust to me seeing and chatting with the afterlife, too.

Emphasis on tried.

Honestly, I think it still scares her. She makes a lot of jokes, but it’s obvious to me she’s uncomfortable. Still, she slaps an indulgent smile on her face and assumes it comes with the territory being a witch’s BFF brings.

And that made me love her even more—Fab accepted me for me, as a witch or not, seeing ghosts or not.

Speaking of ghosts, I looked at the figure now hovering above the mantel, his long legs dangling. I already knew he was a freshly minted ghost. The expression of pure wonder on his face as he floated upward was an instant giveaway.

Old ghosts took it for granted they could float and walk through walls. New ones, once they understood and accepted they were dead, took it upon themselves to see if all the stories about ghosts were true. One of those stories was the ability to float—which this ghost had mastered.

“Evan?”

I narrowed my eyes as I looked up at the ceiling fan, where my ghost bobbed and weaved, mightily distracted by his presence. It had been a while since a ghost had popped up. At least three months since my last one.

“Evan!” Fab said with a stern tone, reminding me I had some ghost therapying to do.

I rubbed my temples. “Uh-huh?”

“Look at me,” Fab demanded, her tone terse—that meant she was on edge.

I leveled my gaze and stared at her. “What?”

Fab worried her lip with her teeth. “Are you going to astro glide or whatever again? Not a fan, BFF. Didn’t like that. Not one bit.”

Snickering at the memory, I said, “What I do isn’t a form of lubricant. It’s called astral projection, Fab. And I sure as heck hope not because I can’t even begin to tell you what realm jumping does to my insides. I’m bloated for days. Not to mention the frizz. There’s nothing like another realm to give your hair hell.” I held up a length of my locks and glanced at how dull the caramel color had become since my last hair appointment with Carlito.

It had been a busy summer staging houses. I barely had time to brush my hair let alone go to the salon.

“Your hair?” she countered with astonishment. “Screw your hair, my brain frizzed after seeing that. There’s nothing like watching your best friend in a weird trance while she leaves her body to go shrub jumping.”

See what I mean about deflecting with humor? It’s officially called hedge jumping, and I said as much.

“Hedge jumping. It’s called hedge jumping, and I didn’t mean to do it while you were there. It just happened. I did apologize.”

“Of course, I know you didn’t mean it, Evan, but it doesn’t mean that I, a mere mortal, am not still freaked out by it. You were like one of those peanut shells without the peanut inside. Hollow.”

I held back my laughter by looking down at my sneakers. I concede it had to be very scary to witness from the outside, but it’s pretty awesome—once you understand it, that is.

And understanding it is a whole other story I’ll share later because that took some time. It’s unpredictable at best and at worst, a little dangerous.

Holding up my hand, I placed it over my heart. “Swear on my collection of vases, I’m not going to astral anything right now. At least I don’t think so, and if I do, I’ll try and give you a warning, okay?”

She patted her hands on her thighs in resignation. “Okay. So do you want me to leave you and your ghost together for some alone time, or should I stay with the hope we still might get to see Jorge and his muscles?”

I held up a hand and inhaled. “Hang tight. Let me see what the sitch is first. Like I said, it could be nothing more than he’s lost something and needs help finding it.”

Fab nodded. “Right, like the time when you helped solve a twenty-year-old murder case before you moved back here, but didn’t tell a soul except for me because you couldn’t explain how you solved it?”

I mimicked dialing a phone—you know, one of the old school ones that were attached to the wall and had twenty-foot cords us dinosaurs used to call our friends with?

“Ring-ring!” I sang out. “Hello? Boston PD? This is Evanora Dark, your local witch. Yeah, you know, the one who makes poultices and potions from the stuff she grows on her rooftop garden, but doesn’t ride a broom or have a cauldron? Yeah! That’s the one. So here’s the thing, I was talking to this ghost, the ghost of the missing woman you guys have been investigating for like almost two decades? Felicia Fallstaff? Remember her? Yup. That’s the one. Anyway, she says the key to solving her murder lies with her brother, Gregory, and she told me everything I need to know to help you guys lock him up and throw away the key.”

Fab rolled her dark eyes at me. “Look here, Cold Case Solver, she didn’t just give you the information. She didn’t know for sure who her killer was. You helped her solve that by connecting the dots and then rather than tell the police it was you who did their jobs, you called in an anonymous tip and let them be the heroes!”

Putting my hands on my hips, I rolled my eyes back at her. “First, you helped, too, if you’ll recall, and second, my little partner in crime, who was going to believe that I actually talked to Felicia Fallstaff, missing socialite? No one. I already felt pretty crazy seeing ghosts, I didn’t need an entire police force to call me crackers. It was easier the way I did it.”

“First,” she mimicked, waving a manicured nail in the air, “I didn’t do anything but some long-distance Internet sleuthing. It was you who put it all together. Second, you cracked one of the biggest cold cases in Boston’s history, and a bunch of men who didn’t know their right testicle from their left got all the credit.”

Yep. And that was the way I liked it. This ghosting thing was hard enough without the added stress of people pointing fingers and making fun of me with the lame line about how I see dead people.

Also, to be fair, I had an inside line—even if Felicia didn’t know who’d killed her, I had the benefit of being able to ask her anything that might help in finding her killer.

“Are we on a we-hate-men kick again?” I asked her. “Because I’m here with the shovels and the bleach.”

Fab sat back, crossing her arms and snickering. “No. I don’t hate men. I love men. Most men. But I don’t love men who didn’t do their jobs in the first place and take the credit for solving a case they had absolutely nothing to do with. If it hadn’t been for that reporter and his “informant,” no one would have known the case was solved from an anonymous tip, not the geniuses at Boston PD.”

That was also fair. The Boston PD had initially taken credit for all the legwork I’d done until a reporter from Action News was tipped off about my anonymous phone call.

Fab, to this day, denies being the tipster, but I still think it was her and her fiercely protective nature when it comes to all things me.

Thankfully, the reporter never found out I was “anonymous,” but it had rankled a little that the cold case unit took all the credit.

Still, I was just happy Felicia could rest in peace, and I hadn’t heard from her since then.

Sighing, I sat down next to my BFF and patted her on the knee. “What’s done is done. If I’m going to do this ghost thing, I’d rather keep a low profile, okay? I don’t care about credit. I care that Creeps R Us’s unofficial president, Greg Falstaff, is now doing life in prison without the possibility of parole.”

Felicia Fallstaff, a rich socialite, due to inherit her father’s mega-millions and his pharmaceutical company, had up and disappeared shortly after the reading of Daddy Falstaff’s will. Every clue had led to a dead end for the Boston PD until she’d contacted me.

Fab’s right. It had been one of the biggest news stories in Boston for a very long time due to her notoriety and what some called the absurd notion a vapid socialite could run a pharmaceutical company.

Little did they know, Felicia Fallstaff had three degrees, one in business administration, another in accounting, and some other high-falutin’ degree I can’t remember.

While everyone had chalked her up to just another pretty face with a rich daddy, she’d been busy studying and waiting for the right moment to reveal how worthy she really was of taking over her father’s corporation.

Which is why her brother had killed her. He’d been embezzling money from his father for years, and he knew she was going to find out when she got her hands on those books.

Then, like everything else, Felicia’s disappearance faded. It became the subject of an occasional episode of 20/20 or Dateline and, more recently, a true crime podcast, but it didn’t get much attention for many years.

Until said true crime podcast.

I’m a huge fan of true crime and true crime podcasts. I just never thought I’d be a part of the actual crime-solving instead of a member of the audience.

But I did help solve Felicia’s murder, quietly. Which was exactly how I wanted this ghost gig to stay—quiet.

Fab patted me on the leg. “I get wanting to fly low under the radar, but you saved a lot of jobs and helped a lot of people at Fallstaff Pharm. I just want the world to know what I know. That you’re amazing and smart. Not to mention beautiful, and funny, and really good at solving mysteries.”

I squeezed Fab’s hand. She was one of my biggest cheerleaders and I loved her for it, but she had no idea how ugly this could get for me if I opened that can of worms.

“Thanks. I don’t know where I’d be without you, but I still don’t want the credit, so put those pom-poms away.”

“Fine. Let’s talk about this latest ghost. What does this ghost want? I called it a him. Is it a man? A woman? More importantly, a cute man or woman?” she asked with a coy smile.

I shrugged and really looked at the ghost. He was lean and long-limbed with cinnamon-colored hair and darting blue eyes. “He’s a little thin for my taste. I like men who don’t weigh less than me.” I patted my midlife belly, just round enough to remind me I no longer had much of a waist.

Fab nudged me. “Seriously, Ev, what does he want?”

“I dunno, but I guess it’s time I found out.” I rose and moved toward the mantel, where the ghost was watching in fascination as he passed his transparent hand through a wooden candlestick.

I cleared my throat, wrapping my hands together behind my back. “Um, how can I help you, Mr…?”

His eyes scoured my face. “Leopold. Ferris Leopold, and you’ll see in a minute.”

You know, these ghosts could be a little rude. I wasn’t at their disposal. Maybe I wasn’t up to playing one of their games. I was happy to help if I could because again, I love a good mystery, and I’m dedicated to helping them, but cheese and rice.

Still, I held my tongue, which can be a little sharp. “What am I going to see?” I asked him as he pushed a fist through the creamy dove-white of the wall above the mantel.

He looked over his shoulder at me and winked. “If I told you, would that be any fun?”

My stomach growled angrily. “Listen, I’m starving. You might not remember what that’s like, but it’s uncomfortable to say the least. Especially if you’re over fifty and for thirty-some odd years used to eating your dinner about the same time every night while you watched Wheel of Fortune.”

That’s not entirely true. Sometimes I watch Jeopardy…

“You’re over fifty?” he asked in a wry tone as his blue gaze scanned my body from head to toe without any shame. “Wow. You look swell. I’d have never guessed over thirty-five.”

Swell. Heh.

I had to fight not to preen and twirl my hair. Look, a girl needs all the compliments she can get when her boobs reach her waistband, okay?

But I stopped myself and remembered my self-imposed duty to the afterlife. “Listen, one more time. How can I help you?”

He sat on the edge of the mantel and crossed his long legs encased in khaki trousers. They looked stiff and uncomfortable, but what can you do? I’ve heard whatever you’re wearing when you die is what you end up wearing for eternity.

Which reminded me to go home and burn all my Spanx and bras when I was done here.

He held up a knobby index finger while looking out the French doors in the dining room facing the backyard. “Some people up here said you were the gal to talk to if I had earthly trouble.”

People… I’d love to know who these people were. Sure, I’d helped some ghosts over the last three years, but not so many that my reputation should precede me. How had I acquired a fanbase and references?

“Okay, then let’s get this show on the road. I’m hungry and we were just about to leave for dinner. I don’t suppose this could be postponed, can it?”

He shook his head and held up a finger. “Wait for it…in three, two, one…”

As if on cue, there was a loud screech, one that pierced my ears and, if I wasn’t mistaken, sounded a lot like it was filled with terror. It sounded like a woman, screaming as if someone had peeled her skin off, and the sharp pitch to it sent a foreboding chill up my spine.

Fab was up and peeking out into the backyard in a split second. When she turned to face us, her expression was stricken. “That’s Cary Mann out there! I think someone’s hurt. C’mon, Evan, let’s go see if we can help!”

“Oh, someone’s hurt all right,” the ghost muttered. “Hurt for-bloomin’-ever.”

Chapter Three

I shot him a narrowed gaze and gave him a warning point of my finger. “You stay put. I’ll be right back.” I flew out the door to see who this Cary was and why she was screaming.

Taking the steps two at a time, I ran-hobbled (got a cramp in my calf) over the freshly landscaped backyard to come up short behind Fab, who was pushing her way through the line of pencil-slim arborvitaes into the neighbor’s yard.

I spat as the branches caught my face and grabbed at my hair, fighting my way through the greenery. Even in heels, Fab was faster than me. She’d remind me it was her yoga paying off, but I just can’t get with yoga. They’re always telling you to find the quiet in your head.

There’s zero quiet in my head. I’m too busy silently wondering how everyone else manages to find the quiet in their heads and sit still for so stupid long.

When I caught up to her, I was still pulling greenery from my mouth. “What’s going on?” I panted.

Fab’s hand was over her lips, her dark eyes wide. When I followed her line of vision, my eyes opened wide, too, and I wasn’t able to stop the gasp that flew from my mouth.

Not only because there was a bloody dead guy half under a blue plastic baby pool in the midst of some freshly fallen leaves, but because that was my guy.

Er, my ghost.

“That’s him!” I blurted out before thinking. Slapping my hand over my mouth, I looked to Fab with guilty eyes.

“You know him?” she whispered, her eyes filled with concern.

“He’s my ghost,” I muttered between my fingers.

“Wow, you move fast, don’t you, Evanora? Your ghost?” I heard a rumbly voice say with a teasing tone. “Slow down, I hardly know you. I prefer a long courtship, thank you very much.”

I rolled my eyes upward and hissed, “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Wait!” Fab grabbed my arm and whispered again, “He isn’t your ghost?”

“No. Yes.” I shook my head in frustration. When would I learn that I couldn’t talk to the ghosts who sought my help in front of people? It made me look like a total weirdo. “I mean, I was talking to him. Er, my ghost.”

Now she gripped my arm tighter and squeaked, “He’s here?”

“Yes! Sitting on the stoop behind that man…”

Whoa, hold on. Who was this man, and what had happened to whoever Fab had been talking about? Cary Somethingorother?

A man stood at the bottom of the wood steps. A ripped-to-the-gods man in a T-shirt, a plaid flannel jacket, scruffy work boots, and, of all things, Wrangler jeans.

I didn’t know anyone who still wore Wranglers, but I’m here to tell you, not many could wear them the way he did anyway. His thigh muscles bulged inside them, and the curve of his backside didn’t disappoint. The T-shirt clinging to his abdomen highlighted his rippled stomach.

My mouth went dry as I scanned his body until my eyes landed on his face. Tanned and rugged, he had deep grooves on either side of his mouth, still hanging open from shock.

His lined blue-gray eyes were wide with surprise, and despite his short silver hair—mixed with a lingering bit of dark brown—his eyelashes were still dark and thickly fringed.

Loud and proud, I’m unashamed to say he was mouthwatering, and I don’t even care if that sounds forward. I said what I said.

I’m sort of into that since my heart attack, by the way—if I think someone is pretty, I tell them. If I think someone is wearing a color that complements their hair and skin and looks good on them, I say so.

It’s called life’s too short not to spread a little kindness. Though, I probably wouldn’t share that particular kindness with this man.

But so help me, he was a snack. A whole snack.

“Tsk-tsk. You’re staring, Evanora.” Ferris the ghost interrupted my thoughts on a chuckle.

I instantly averted my eyes and fought to find some sort of focus. There was a dead man lying at our feet, for the love of all things murdered, and all I could do was eye-lust a complete stranger.

Rolling up the sleeves of my sweatshirt, which I noted was a little ratty, I decided leveler heads needed to prevail. “Has anyone called 9-1-1?”

The delicious man finally looked at me as though he were seeing me for the very first time. His gaze—a little intense, if you ask me—ate mine up in one big swallow.

“Who are you?” he asked, and I was fascinated with the movement of his lips, even if his tone sounded suspicious.

“Who are you?” I volleyed back.

Fab held up a hand and shot me an apologetic wince. “I totally forgot! You guys don’t know each other yet. Cary, this is my best friend, Evan Dark. Evan, Cary Mann. He moved back to Buttermilk Bay to take over his dad’s contracting business about two months ago. You’ll probably see a lot of him in the near future with all the projects I have going on. For right now, he’s been doing work for the Swansons. They’re the people who own this house.”

This was Cary Mann?

I realize what I’m about to say is cliché, but Cary Mann is all man. All. Man. Definitely not a woman, which was what I’d initially thought when Fab said the name back at the other house.

He held out his big, tanned and calloused contractor hand and stuck it in my general direction. “You’re the stager, right?”

Gosh, he looked handsome under the backdrop of the autumn day, all glowing amber and orange.

I forced myself to nod. “Yep. That’s me. The stager.” I took his hand and bit the inside of my cheek at my stupid response. Ugh. “I mean, yes, I stage houses.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow that matched his eyelashes, but his attention was clearly on the corpse on the ground. “Sorry we’re finally meeting under such unpleasant circumstances. I’ve heard a lot about you from Fabiola. And yes, one of my employees called 9-1-1. I knew what I was walking into when they called me; I guess I just didn’t expect it to hit me the way it did when I actually came out here to look at what they were all freaking about. I should have stayed inside.”

Then I remembered, someone had screamed. Were they harmed? In need of help? Had whoever’d done this hurt someone else, too? “But we heard screaming. Who was screaming and are they okay?”

“Again, waaait for it,” my ghost said on a sharp snicker.

Cary rocked back on the heels of his work boots and gave us a sheepish glance. “That was me. Like I said, I didn’t think seeing it would be as real as it turned out to be. It’s not like in the movies, ya know?”

I swallowed hard to fend off a nervous giggle.

Now isn’t the time to laugh, Evan. There’s a dead guy on the lawn under a plastic pool with festive unicorns jumping over rainbows on top of him, and the manliest man you’ve ever seen screams like a teenage girl at a horror movie.

We were all silent for a moment as the trees swayed and the leaves of early fall began to float to the ground. The warm-ish breeze lifted my hair and carried the scent of whatever cologne Cary was wearing to my nose. And yes, in case anyone’s wondering, it smelled as delicious as he looked.

“Still staring, Evanora,” Ferris reminded, a wide grin on his lean face. He snapped his fingers to capture my attention as he hovered over the back steps.

I shook off my infatuation with a man I’d only just met and finally took a good look at the body on the ground.

I could only see half of it due to the plastic blue pool, but it was enough to see my ghost, Ferris Leopold, had been hit with something—and hit hard. There was blood caked in his cinnamon-colored hair and a gash in his skull at least three inches wide.

“Bludgeoned, “I murmured without thinking.

Ferris puffed up his cheeks. “No kidding. Hit me like I was a nail in some drywall.”

Cary had turned his back away from the body and looked out toward the front of the small white and black house. “Where the devil are the police?”

I rested on my haunches and looked closer, trying not to touch anything. The pool covered a good part of Ferris’s body, but his khaki-covered leg was twisted as though he’d fallen before he’d been clubbed, and he was facing away from the door. Likely that meant he’d been running away.

“The position of the body looks like he was running away from someone. Do you know how long he’s been here?”

“I thought you were a stager, not an officer of the law?” Cary asked in his whiskey-smoked voice.

Fab looked down at me and licked her lips—a sure sign she was nervous as she set about explaining to Cary why I was ticking off details like I was Jessica Fletcher. “Evan watches a lot of true crime. She’s a real true crime buff. She’s part of a Facebook group and everything. They’re called the pretend detectives or something, right, Evan?”

“It’s called Armchair Detectives for Justice.” And then I felt stupid when I said it out loud. We were just a bunch of amateurs.

But those people had done a lot of good, and when I started seeing ghosts who needed assistance and instantly knew it mattered to me to help them, I came across them in my research and joined.

Cary cleared his throat and shook his head, obviously above a silly Facebook group of wannabe detectives. “I don’t know how long he’s been here. Could have been all day for all I know. We just now were getting ready to clear out the backyard to prepare to pour a patio tomorrow, but my guys have been inside drywalling since seven this morning.”

I shrugged and tried to stand up, but my knees locked and my hip burned. Thankfully, Fab came to my rescue and hauled me upward.

Shaking out my legs, I said, “Like I said, it looks like he was running away from his attacker. It doesn’t look like he fell and hit his noggin.” I pointed to the surrounding areas by the steps. “There’s no blood anywhere but on his head. No bloody rocks, the steps have no blood on them.”

Ferris clapped his hands, making him hard to ignore. “Yass, Queen! You’re absolutely right, I was running away from someone. It happened last night. Or at night, anyway. I’ve sort of lost track of time, but I do remember it was dark,” he supplied.

A new man entered the scene, short and stout with a scruffy beard and thick fingers. He came out the back door and stood on the landing to the steps.

“Had to be either this morning or last night, Boss. Me and Effie was out here yesterday afternoon takin’ measurements just like you told us to, and that pool was leaning up against the side of the house. I remember.” His heavy Boston accent reminded me I was home.

Cary turned back around, but he kept his eyes staring straight ahead at his employee. “Miss Dark, this is my right-hand man, Hawkins Jessup. Hawkins, meet Evanora Dark.”

Hawkins wiped his hand on his round belly and held it out to me. I took it and gave him a brief smile. “You can just call me Evan, and I’m sorry we’re meeting under such unfortunate circumstances. Did you know this man? Did he live here?”

He yanked his ball cap off and scratched his dark, scruffy head. “Got no idea who the flippin’ frack he is. What I do know, lady? This is gonna hold us up. Cops are gonna come and label it a crime scene and put all that crazy yellow tape around the backyard and they won’t let us back in here for however long it takes those yokels to get all their forensic junk done. This is gonna set us back, Boss. We can’t afford to keep having setbacks. It’s messin’ up our schedule.”

Cary grated out a sigh. “Don’t be disrespectful of the dead, Hawk. I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean to get himself killed just so he could mess up our schedule.”

“Winner-winner chicken dinner!” Ferris sang. “I sure as the day is long wasn’t planning on getting myself offed. I had plans. Big plans.”

“What were you planning?” I muttered, rubbing my temples. If he didn’t live here and the contractors didn’t know him, why had he been here in the first place?

Fab nudged me and gripped my arm in warning. “You’re doing it again,” she said under her breath.

I frowned at Ferris, mushing my eyebrows together. I needed to gather as much information as I could before the police came and ruined my fact-finding mission. I’m guessing Ferris Leopold wanted me to find out who’d killed him and that meant paying attention to detail.

The sound of sirens rang out, signaling the Buttermilk Bay Police were finally on their way, and as Cary’s other employee poked his head out of the small ranch’s back door, I whispered to Fab, “Distract, please?”

“Guys,” she called out in her flirty tone. “I say we go out front and greet the fine folks of Buttermilk Bay PD, yes? We don’t want to get in their way and they’ll want to talk to who’s in charge anyway.”

At Fab’s suggestion, everyone began to wander toward the front of the house while I pulled my phone out and asked Ferris if he minded me taking pictures of the crime scene.

I felt like I was exploiting him, and that felt gross, but he rolled his hand toward his body and struck a funny pose, seemingly unbothered by seeing his corpse lying on the ground. “Take pics like we’re doin’ a shoot for Vogue, girlie.”

I’d listened to enough true crime podcasts to know I was going to need reference points and having pictures to look back on is the best way for me to gather details.

I began snapping away as fast as I could while he complained. “Aw, man, they took my phone and my wallet! Creeps!”

“Well, that’s usually what thieves do, Ferris. Am I wrong? You were robbed. Did you have a lot of money on you?”

He snorted so loud, I was surprised no one but me could hear him. “Nope. No credit cards either, and my phone was five years old.”

I snapped another picture, my stomach rolling. They’d killed him for nothing? “So I’m guessing you want me to help you figure out who killed you?”

“Nope. I want you to submit these to What Not to Wear, so I can get a makeover. Yes, Evanora! Yes, I want you to help figure out who killed me! Christmas and a reindeer, lady, I thought they said you were the best. I think I got bamboozled.”

I stood up straight and looked him in the eye. “Who is they?”

He pointed upward as though I’d gone mad. “Everybody upstairs. You know, the See-Throughs?”

Maybe I had gone mad. Maybe I didn’t really survive my quad bypass and this was some kind of other dimension where I had to help others to get my pass to cross over or something.

“The who?” I asked in aggravation when I heard the rustle of feet coming around the corner.

He let his head flop backward before he lifted it and rolled his eyes at me, his lips thinned. “The See-Throughs, Evanora. You know, the ghosts. They all said you were good at figuring stuff out. They said you helped some lady named Felicia figure out who killed her.”

Oh, my stars. Solve a mystery once and suddenly you’re labeled private detective to the great beyond.

I needed a disclaimer form or something. There was no guarantee I could figure out who’d killed Ferris. Finding Felicia’s killer was just luck.

I grimaced. “But that was just one time, Ferris, and I got lucky. That’s all. I’m no expert. In fact, I have zero idea what I’m doing. I think we should let the police do their jobs and I’ll keep you informed about what they find, how’s that?”

“No!” he thundered, making the leaves on the big oak tree shake. “When they find out who I am, they’re gonna put my case on the furthest back burner they can find. No, Evanora, I need your help. They told me you’d help!”

Now I was suspicious. Was I helping a bad guy find out who’d killed him only to find out he was, in fact, a bad guy?

“So who are you and why won’t the police care that you’re dead?”

Ferris’s shoulders sagged and his expression grew sad. “I’m a thief, Evanora. A dirty thief who was trying to steal something very valuable from the Swansons. I mean, I don’t think I deserved to die for my wayward past, but just so’s ya know, I have my regrets.”

A thief who was attempting to steal something valuable? How interesting.

I knew a little something about thieves and valuable items.

But more on that later…

My heart softened at the look of regret on his face. Maybe I was the one being bamboozled now.

And that’s exactly what I told Ferris as he floated up along the rusty drain pipe. With great trepidation, I said, “I need to hear the whole story before I decide to help figure out what happened to you.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Are you talking to the dead guy?” a round-faced, built-like-a-tractor-trailer police officer in a crisp black uniform asked.

I sighed. I really needed to learn to take better note of my surroundings before they locked me up and threw away the key.

Chapter Four

“Give Mommy some love, guys, huh? It’s been a long day and my hip is on fire.”

My bulldogs, Rizzo and Kenickie (yep, you guessed it, I’m a huge Broadway musical fan. Grease is one of my favorites), snorted and shoved their way into position on my small sectional sofa until they were pressed as closely to me as possible.

This was their reminder that my opossum, Carmine—a cute little bundle of beady black eyes and freshly washed white fur, who’d arrived after them—is, in their eyes, an interloper.

But too bad. I’d found Carmine after he’d been abandoned. Likely, he’d fallen off his mother’s back, and he’d been a tiny, helpless ball of fluff.

Naturally, it was love at first critter sight. Not a chance in a million I’d have left him to fend for himself. Especially not after he clung to my fingers like I was the human version of Velcro.

I understand some people think opossums are scary and not the most attractive pets in the world, but my Carmine? He’s a little angel straight from the wild, and no way was I abandoning him when the wildlife rehab I’d called hadn’t shown up.

Rizzo, my white and tan, fifty-pound chunk of a dog, nudged Carmine with her nose, attempting to push him off my lap.

“Knock it off,” I scolded with a smile and a stroke of her broad back. “Carmine’s staying, little lady. Adjust.”

Kenickie grunted as though he knew he had no choice in the matter. I scratched his broad head as we settled in on the couch for our ritual nighty watch of Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune.

Carmine looked up at me, his pointy face filled with gratitude, his kooky whiskers twitching. He was what Fab calls my little illegal.

As in, you’re not supposed to have opossums as pets in the state of Mass, but tough tulips. No one showed up to help him and I’d dare anyone to try and take him from me, now that I’d nursed him back to health and we’d bonded.

“Right, Carmine? Who’s Mommy’s good boy?” He twitched those whacky whiskers at me, making me smile

Inhaling, I took a deep breath and blew it out, relieved to be home. Being here, sitting on my oatmeal-colored sectional with the puffy cushions, ottoman, and throw pillows in cream and black, brought me a peace I’d never known in my apartment in Boston.

I think I mentioned I’d renovated this entire ’70s monstrosity when my father died, and when I say I renovated, I mean from top to bottom. I turned this mobile home into my palace—gutted it completely.

Tore out walls, reconfigured the kitchen, added more storage (mobile homes are notoriously low on storage), put in a walk-in shower and freestanding tub in the master, overlooking the ocean.

Then I set about decorating it in calming colors of cinnamon and cream, with touches of black and moss green. I added rustic vases and candles, throw rugs and cozy blankets in rattan baskets for warmth.

But the best was my king-size bed. I’d gone all out on the mattress and the bedding, with Egyptian cotton sheets and a thick duvet with a pale gray linen cover and, of course, tons of pillows.

I loved it, and every time I walked through the aquamarine-painted front door (which I’d also replaced with a simple steel door that had square glass and an uncluttered pattern), I instantly relaxed.

This little twelve-hundred and forty-two square foot oasis was my respite, my solace, and I adored it. I also loved that it was paid for, and because my father had owned it, and he’d been so beloved here in Wildflower Meadows by the Sea, the seniors had allowed me to move in even though I wasn’t quite fifty-five.

Anyway, back to the issue at hand—helping Ferris. First, I never did get that sauerkraut. After we were done with the police, who asked me a few questions at best, and I was done eavesdropping on them, Fab and I decided we’d better call it a night.

I had a big job booked for tomorrow and she had to deal with trying to sell a house next door to a house where someone had been snuffed out.

So I’d grabbed a cheeseburger at one of my favorite local burger joints and had some dinner before taking a shower, putting on some sweats, and trying to figure out what had happened to Ferris.

I needed to know more about him. More details. Did he deserve to be murdered for his thieving? Probably not. But did I want to help a thief catch a murderer?

The police had, in fact, known exactly who Ferris was—a petty thief well-versed with the ways of the Buttermilk Bay PD. I hate to say it, but I think he was right. His case would be back-burnered due to his shady past and continual trouble with the law.

Nothing serious or violent, mind you. Some shoplifting, minor theft and so on, but he looked well past the age to have outgrown such nonsense. I got the impression Ferris was a grifter, and now I was about to find out.

I’d asked Ferris for some privacy, told him I’d call his name when I was ready to talk about the details of his death and what he’d been doing at the Swansons’ house. I had to do some research on him and find out what he was all about first.

I had a strict rule with the afterlife—give Evan her privacy. In fact, it was my number one rule anytime I agreed to help an entity.

Leaning forward, I set Carmine on the couch on a fluffy pillow, where he snuggled in, then opened my laptop and went straight to Facebook to look up Ferris Leopold.

“Darling?” a deep, cultured voice rumbled into the room.

“Uh-huh?”

“How goes it, favorite child?”

He chuckled, and when I looked up, I saw he was sitting on the kitchen island, his transparent limbs highlighting the starkness of the white quartz countertop.

Remember when I said I’d tell you about my father? The one who’s not on this plane?

You guessed it. He’s a ghost. Yes, my father, Knightly Allen Dark, is a ghost. He died four years ago under some very suspicious circumstances he refused to discuss.

He came to me shortly after I began seeing ghosts, scared the actual pants off me, and now shows no signs of going anywhere.

And that’s okay by me. When he’d died, he’d left both my other dad (I was raised by two men. I’ll explain that later, too) and I with a bunch of unanswered questions—all brought to light by his death.

My little mobile home being one of those questions. We’d had no idea it even existed until his attorney read his will. When he popped up one night while I was changing in my bathroom, after I’d almost passed out, I fixed that little problem tout de suite by asking. That’s how I found out this had once been his lair…

Still, some of our questions remained unanswered—as in, Knightly Allen refused to answer them on the grounds it might incriminate him. What my other dad and I suspected it meant was, we’d find out how truly, deeply in trouble he’d been with various law enforcement agencies.

Because my dad, in life, had been a jewel thief, wanted all over the world for his heists. Some might call him the ultimate conman; others call him infamous.

He’d hidden a lot of his procurements here in this very mobile home, thinking no one would suspect a mobile home would be a thief’s hideout. And he’d been right.

“Evanora? Did you hear me? How’s my favorite child?”

I fought a grin. Despite his shady past, I loved him. “I’m your only child, Daddy.”

“While that’s true, Nugget, even if you weren’t an only child, you’d still be my favorite.”

I looked up at him. Even at seventy-five, he was still as darkly handsome as he’d been in his forties and fifties. “How are you, Dad? How’s the afterlife today?”

He grinned that charismatic grin of his—the one that made you forget all his prior offences. “It’s magnificent. Filled with nothing to do but sit around and sit around some more. But the drinks are cheap and they have a buffet with all-you-can-eat chicken wings. So I can’t complain.”

“You have all-you-can-eat chicken wings in the afterlife? Sign me up.” I closed my laptop. I didn’t want him to see what I was doing or he’d try to “help.” The last time he helped had ended in absolute mayhem with me in the ER.

“We do, an endless supply, and plenty of cheap whiskey, too. Now that you’re all caught up on being dead, how’s being alive?”

“Exhausting,” I said on a chuckle. “What brings you here tonight, Pops?”

His face went soft and he was quiet for a moment, leaving only the rising wind to break the silence. The nights were getting chillier here by the ocean. My favorite time of year was upon us.

“Before we get into that, how’s my Cedrick? Well, I hope?”

Cedrick is my other dad. While Knightly is my biological father and was married to my deceased mother, Cedrick was his life partner and the man who took care of me a good portion of the time my father was off on his escapades. He was, and to this day still is, my rock.

“Cedrick is great, Dad. He’s taking a golf class and cooking classes and he’s enjoying his retirement.”

From his legitimate job that he earned legitimately.

“And is there anyone I should know about?” He tried to sound nonchalant and disinterested when he asked, but we both knew how desperate he was to know what Cedrick was up to.

I heard the sadness in my father’s voice. He’d loved Cedrick in a time when two men in a committed relationship was even less favorably received than it is now. They’d married when it had become legal in Massachusetts, and Cedrick had loved my dad so much, he’d taken his last name.

They were two strong men, who’d weathered raising a little girl in the seventies and eighties and all the storms not only their relationship brought, but that I’d brought as a teen and beyond.

“Daddy, that’s not fair and you know it. Cedrick loved you and he was loyal to you for almost fifty years. But you died, and he’s finally moving on. It’s healthy, and I know you want him to be healthy. We’ve talked about this, Dad. He can’t have a relationship with a ghost.”

I saw the pain flash across my father’s face every time he asked about Cedrick, the regret, but Cedrick was in a good place. He accepted that my father was gone, and even that Knightly kept tabs on him through me, but he was finally starting to live out his golden years and have fun. I didn’t want to stir up the precarious balance we were all experiencing this last year or so since Knightly had finally come to a semi-grip about Cedrick moving on.

My father sighed with great longing. “You’re right, Nugget. But sometimes…” He flapped a tapered hand. “Bah!” he dismissed with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t put you in that position.”

My heart clenched, but it was a rock and a hard place no matter how you sliced it, and I was relieved he knew that.

“Thanks for that.” I paused and gave him a moment to gather himself before I decided to redirect our conversation. “So what brings you here tonight, Dad?”

“Well,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, his eyes, crinkled at the corners, aglow with mischief. “A little birdie told me—”

I hopped up from the couch, almost knocking Rizzo off, and vehemently shook my head. “Oh no, Dad. No, no, no!”

His handsome face, with barely a sign of aging, fell. “Oh, c’mon, Nugget. I only want to help.”

I swept into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge, grabbing a bottle of wine. I had a feeling I’d need it. “What happened the last time you helped, Knightly Allen Dark?”

“But…” he sputtered, swallowing in clear discomfort.

I lifted an eyebrow as I grabbed a wine tumbler and poured a nice big glass. I took a long sip, letting the fruity liquid coat my throat.

Don’t judge. The doctor says I can have a glass or two a day. He didn’t say how big the glass could be…

“What happened, Dad?” I pressed.

He came to stand beside me and while I couldn’t feel his presence literally, metaphysically, he was everywhere. In fact, I actually smelled his cologne—a spicy mixture of earthy woods and musk that had probably, if I knew my dad, cost the earth.

Maybe it was just one of those phantom memories from when he’d gather me in his arms and give me a big hug after he’d come back from a “work” trip, but I smelled it every time.

Dad ran his finger along the collar of his cable-knit sweater (the sweater he’d had on when he died, and worn specifically in order to blend in for one of his jewel-thieving scams; a sweater I know killed him to have to wear for an eternity) and gave me a sheepish look.

He put his hands up in a defeated gesture. “Really, Evanora, do we have to go over it again? What’s passed is past.”

I leaned back on the counter on my elbow. “We do if you want to insinuate yourself into what that little birdie told you.”

He blew out a breath and made a face. “Insinuate,” he said with distaste. “I’m your father, Evanora. How can I be insinuating?”

Now I grinned. People had always said I had his smile and my mother’s eyes (which were green). “You are, and I’m mad about you, Father. Buuut I think almost getting me run over as I chased down that car to get the license plate number is more help than I needed.”

That’s right. My father had almost gotten me killed.

A bona fide nurturer, huh?

Chapter Five

It wasn’t on purpose, mind you, but it did happen because he couldn’t keep his nose out of my life.

I’d been trying to help a ghost get a lead on a man who drove the car used to rob his mother’s house. This total dirtbag guy had roughed up my ghost’s elderly mother pretty bad and gotten away with it. But my ghost had seen the car that jerk left the scene of the crime in, and had no way to tell anyone until he found me to use as his conduit.

Long story short, me and my ghost, Aesop Horowitz, after some sleuthing, located the car due to the unusual model, and I ran after it to get the license plate number so we could catch the son of a gun and maybe recover some of Mrs. Horowitz’s stolen items.

I pulled the clip from my hair, shaking it out until it grazed my shoulders. “Don’t deflect, Dad. What happened?”

“Have I mentioned your new hairstyle is lovely on you, Nugget? I like it longer and the color suits you.” He waved a transparent finger at my shoulders where my hair had landed.

“Dad? I’ve had this hairstyle for months. You’ve seen it every day since I had it done. Stop stalling and remind the class what happened the last time you ‘helped’ me.”

I loved this part. It prompted him to remember there were parts of my life he should keep his nose out of.

“Fine, if you must hear it out loud, I was guiding you from above as you chased that car on foot and you didn’t bob and weave—”

“Nope!” I yelped, holding up my hand to thwart his retelling of that tragic tale. “No way, Dad. I told you to stay out of it, but you insinuated yourself into the middle of everything when I was distracted and sent me hurtling into the center of traffic. I was almost crushed to death by a Smart Car. But I guess if we’re going to sugarcoat this, there but for the grace of whoever’s in charge, I only sprained my ankle and broke my middle finger.”

He gave me his best pouty, sad face. “I’ve apologized countless times, Nugget. Countless.”

I clucked my tongue and nodded my head, taking another sip of wine. “You sure did. All while my finger was being X-rayed and wrapped and especially while I paid the four-thousand-dollar medical bill.”

He scoffed with a wrinkle of his nose. “I told you, darling, all you have to do is—”

“Go to your super-secret hiding place, and get whatever you’ve stashed in the super-secret hiding place, and sell it to pay the medical bill.”

Dad frowned. He just couldn’t seem to understand why this was wrong. In his mind, what he’d stashed away during his life of debauchery was his way of providing for us, leaving us well taken care of should anything happen to him, despite the fact that the goods were stolen.

“Well, yes. That’s exactly what you should have done, Nugget. But far be it from you to listen to your father.”

My shoulders slumped. He’d never learn, would he? “And I told you, I don’t want your blood money. I definitely don’t want to know where the super-secret hiding place is. I don’t need the FBI or the CIA, Interpol, or whatever acronym, crawling up my butt, looking for it. If I don’t know where it is or what’s hidden there, I can’t lie when I say I don’t know.”

“Oh, Evanora,” he scolded in his dad tone and wagged a finger at me. “Don’t be so dramatic. There was no blood involved, and they don’t even know you exist, darling. They don’t know I exist…or, er, don’t exist anymore. I was very careful never to involve you or your father. Everyone thinks Knightly Allen Dark sold boring insurance. There is zero connection between me and my aliases.”

“Until they do. Until somehow, somewhere, someone you stole something from, someone you angered and conned, digs around and figures it out and before you know it, you’re an episode of Dateline.”

He floated by the fridge, hovering near the ceiling. “It’s on Friday nights, isn’t it? You certainly won’t miss the episode, now will you?”

“Is that a poke at my singledom?” I narrowed my eyes at him and stomped across my engineered hardwood floors to flop down on the couch.

In a flash, he was on the chair opposite me, leg crossed, face contrite. “Not a poke. The truth. You need to get out, Evanora.”

Popping open my laptop, I typed in Ferris Leopold’s name. “I am out, Dad. I’m staging houses. I meet all sorts of people doing it.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I mean with the opposite sex, Nugget. Not your newest throw pillow acquisition.”

For a second, Cary Mann flashed in my mind’s eye and then I shook it off. I had a ghost in need and a demanding workload, that left no time for romance.

“I’m not interested in dating so much these days. If the op presents itself, great. If not, I like me. I like me a lot. I have Callum and my new business and Fab. I’m good.”

And I really am good. I loved my life since I’d left HR with a bang after my heart attack. I appreciated it so much more, I’d decided to let it unfold organically. That included my love life.

I liked my little house, my dogs, eating in my sweats, watching whatever I liked until whenever I liked. Falling on top of my mountain of pillows before snuggling into bed with my dogs and Carmine. For now, I was content.

Now my father’s smile turned warm. “I like you, too. But I’d also like knowing someone will take care of you.”

“I can take care of myself. I think I’ve proven that for years now. I’ve been single for almost twenty years and doing just fine.” I located Ferris’s Facebook page and clicked on it while my father tried to talk me into dating.

“It’s still nice when you can share it with someone, don’t you think?”

“I share it with Cal and Fab and a slew of seniors here in the Meadows, whom I adore. I’m much happier unmarried than I ever was married, believe me. Not everyone can have a storybook romance like you and Cedrick, Dad.”

He had that faraway look in his eyes again, a look I hope reflected regret for lying to Cedrick all those years—because he hadn’t just fooled everyone around him about what he did to keep us in the cul-de-sac, he’d fooled poor Cedrick, too.

The grief of that alone had brought Cedrick to his knees. Then guilt had struck, followed by feeling like an idiot for not seeing the signs.

Dad quickly changed the subject. Par for the course with him when we talked about his past. He leaned in, setting his chin on his knuckles. “Speaking of Cal. How is my grandson, anyway? Still taking the world by storm? He’s a good boy, that one.”

I grinned and nodded. My son was the best part of my dysfunctional ten-year marriage. His father was almost nonexistent in his life since we’d divorced when he was little, and it troubled me that Silas, my ex, took so little time to bond with his son. Yet, whenever Callum had a milestone or a great achievement in his life, Silas was conveniently there to take the credit with a “That’s my boy.”

I tried to focus on my computer screen. “He’s great, Dad. Just got a promotion, in fact. Loves living in Boston.”

My father made a soundless slap on his knee. “He’s such a great grandson. I’m so proud of him.”

“Me, too, Daddy. Now shoo.” Biting my knuckle, I squinted at the Facebook page and its blurry words mashed together, too lazy to get my glasses. “I have a dead guy to investigate.”

Off in the distance—as in, not here in the mortal realm—I heard coughing.

I let my head fall back on my shoulders. Ferris was becoming impatient. I didn’t need him and my father mixed up with one another.

Dad would charm him senseless and Ferris would invite my father to join the hunt, and I only had so much in the way of emergency funds to go around for ER visits and broken digits.

Heh. That rhymed.

I gave my dad a pointed look. “Daddy? I’d like some privacy, please.”

I had the same rule with my father that I did with the rest of the ghosts in my life. Privacy. I didn’t know how to make that aspect of ghosting happen yet, but I’d threatened to learn so I could have my space.

Apparently, there’s a way to put up some kind of block or force field or something very sci-fi-like so that when I want space, I can enforce the rule. Fab told me she’d read about it somewhere, but I’d yet to investigate the truth of the theory.

My father had a way of taking up all the air in a room. He was charismatic and larger than life, handsome and funny, and sometimes those qualities overwhelmed me.

Dad sighed, long and wistful. “All right, Nugget. I’ll just go and sit by myself and do nothing until it’s time to get up and do nothing again.”

Chuckling, I shook my head. “Sure, Dad. As if you ever knew what it was like to sit alone. Go be charismatic upstairs. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Ten sharp for some Investigation ID? It is Friday tomorrow,” he reminded me, his voice hopeful, his smile endearing.

“Just like always. Night, Dad. I love you.”

“And I you, Evanora…longer than forever,” he whispered the words he’d always used when I was a child before he evaporated into the air and was gone.

He was pretty good at allowing me my space once we’d established some rules—mostly, that is.

Yet, when my father left, there was always a moment of complete emptiness, as though a piece of my soul left with him each time he went wherever it is he goes when he’s not here lovingly terrorizing me. The same way it had when he’d died four years ago.

But then I settled in, the dogs took deep breaths, and I remembered he’d be back.

He always came back.

That meant it was time to dig into Ferris’s murder. I’d never investigated a real-time murder before. Sure, I’d listened to plenty of them on podcasts, watched them on TV, but actually involved with a ghost who’d so recently been murdered? Not so much.

In fact, I’d never even seen a dead body before today—not one who’d been murdered, anyway.

And I was terrified I’d help someone who might have deserved what he’d gotten. What if he was much worse than some petty criminal?

Yet, I didn’t get the impression Ferris was a bad guy—like maybe there was a story about why he stole things.

Sad childhood, no father figure, lack of parental guidance? Who knew? It certainly didn’t make it right, but he wasn’t exactly out pillaging and plundering villages either.

I needed to find out what was what before I made some weird pact with a super-bad dude.

Squaring my shoulders, I fluffed the pillow behind me and called, “Ferris? You can come out now. Let’s get the show on the road.”

Like magic, Ferris melted out of my darkened hallway that led to the spare bedroom and my room, floating toward me. “I thought he’d never leave.”

Rolling up the sleeves of my sweatshirt, I nodded. “That was my dad, by the way.”

Ferris settled into the puffy, oversized the chair my father had just left. “No disrespect, but gadzooks, he’s a talker.”

I couldn’t help but laugh as I crossed my legs and set my laptop on them. “If you only knew. Now, Ferris Leopold. Tell me who you are and why I should help you?”

“I thought you said you would help?”

“No. I said nothing of the sort. Listen, you were robbing an elderly couple, buddy. That’s uncool. You’re a criminal.”

He smacked his lips together in silent resignation. “That’s fair.”

I frowned at him and the defeated look on his face. “So are you going to tell me why you’re a common criminal?”

Out of nowhere, he grinned, and I hate to admit it, but it was quite pleasant. He had nice teeth and a dimple in his chin I hadn’t noticed before.

“I’m not. I can’t tell you why I steal stuff. The thrill of it? The adrenaline rush? I’m lazy and don’t want to work? I think that’s the closest to the truth as I can get.”

An honest criminal? Or was he?

I gazed at him for a little bit, trying to decide where to go from here. “Then let’s start on the night you died. What happened, and don’t leave out a single detail. Most especially, why you were at a house that obviously wasn’t yours.”

“How do you know it wasn’t mine?” he answered with a huff.

I pointed to the laptop screen. “Because your Facebook page says you live in Salem, Ferris, and I’ve been back and forth past the Swansons’ a hundred times during the flip we’re doing next door, and I don’t recall ever seeing you there. They’re an elderly couple who live alone with their little Pomeranian dog.”

“That beast nearly took my leg clear off,” he complained.

Uh-huh. “Was that because you were trying to steal something and he was protecting his home?”

Ferris shook his head full of shaggy cinnamon hair, his expression almost indignant. “When I first met Pome-monster, I wasn’t trying to steal. He was in the backyard while I did recon to prepare to steal. Swear it on my life.”

Tapping my fingers on my laptop, I squinted at his page. “You no longer have one of those, Ferris. So forgive me if I call baloney.”

He paused and looked wistfully over my shoulder with a long sigh. “Oh, yeah. Man, you’re a realist, huh? Thanks for reminding me I’m kaput. Anyway, when he tried to chew my leg off, I was only…scoping the place out. I didn’t try to steal anything until the night I was snuffed.”

Something about his tone rang false. Maybe it was the way he looked past me and over my shoulder, or the twitch in his lean cheek.

But he was admitting to theft, or at least attempted theft, so what did he have to hide?

Still, in order to make sure we were on the up and up and crystal clear about where I stood, I reminded him, “Ferris, I told you the rules before we left the Swansons’, right? You have to be completely honest with me about everything having to do with your murder. No secrets, no surprises. I’m not a fan of them unless they involve me being whisked off to Paris on a private jet. Got it?”

He never flinched when he nodded. “Got it.”

“Okay, so you were trying to rob the Swanson’s. What were you trying to steal the night you were killed? Money? Jewelry?”

He looked me dead in the eye. Know what he had the nerve to say?

“A spoon.”

A spoon. He’d gotten himself killed over a spoon.

Could you kill someone twice? Metaphorically, of course.

Chapter Six

“A spoon?” I repeated. “Like the kind you use to eat cereal and ice cream? Soup? A spoon?”

He hopped off the chair and floated to sit next to me, his expression as serious as it had been since we’d met. “A spoon. But not just any spoon, Ev. It’s a spoon that goes all the way back to the Roman Empire. It’s been missing forever.”

Okay, so he was dead because of a really old spoon.

I hit the Internet and typed in the words “spoon” and “Roman Empire” and came up with Gaius Octavius Thurinus, who served as the first official emperor of the Roman Empire from 27 B.C. to 14 A.D.

Also known as Augustus (how did they get Augustus from Gaius, one wonders), and for whom the month of August is named.

And then I saw a small article with a picture of a spoon, purportedly used by Augustus himself, and verified by Sotheby’s and the Roman government way back in 1910. It had gone missing during the war.

I gave the article a quick skim. The running theory was that a soldier had likely taken it during World War I and brought it back to America, where, not knowing the value of the utensil, he’d either given it away or it had been lost. Either way, it had never been recovered, as far as the Roman government knew.

Now I was intrigued, and I kinda wanted to know how Mrs. Swanson allegedly ended up with it.

I scratched Kenickie’s back and fought a yawn. “So the spoon is worth a lot of money, and you planned to do what after you stole it?”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “Well, duh. Sell it for a ton of money and buy an island where I’d sip piña coladas all day and watch the world float by from my yacht.”

The flippant tone he used almost masked the war his brain was having with his face—a face he was trying to keep straight and impassive.

But I didn’t have time for games. It was pushing ten o’ clock and I’d had a long day. I’d finished a big staging project, met a cute guy and seen a dead body. That was a lot of razmataz for someone my age.

So I closed the laptop and gave him a sour glance before rising and heading to my bathroom, the dogs in tow.

“Listen, Ferris, this is where I bow out. I’m beat. My bursitis is clawing a burning hole in my hip. I want to snuggle up with a heating pad and my dogs and get some rest. I’m not up for jokes or games. While I appreciate you’re in a pickle, and I’m really sorry you were murdered, I have to hit the sack. So, good luck. I hope you find someone who can help.”

I waved him off over my shoulder, not feeling one bit guilty. Mostly. He was, after all, a criminal, right?

Then why did I feel so awful? He’d been in the act of doing a bad thing. Stealing from two elderly people was the epitome of craptastic.

I popped open my bathroom door, inhaling deeply. The spa-like nature of the space, with its ivory and white marble (yep; I’d put marble in a mobile home), moss-green cabinets and brass pulls, always left me instantly relaxed.

But it didn’t make me feel less guilty for sending Ferris away.

When I’d helped Felicia Falstaff, I’d empathized with her…sympathized for her. She’d been a young, beautiful woman who was smart and mistaken for a vapid rich girl. And she’d been cut down in the prime of her life—a life she’d planned to use for good.

Ferris had just finished telling me he was lazy and a criminal. As the great Billy Joel once sang, honesty is such a lonely word.

I felt zero empathy for his plan to rip off an old lady.

Turning on the faucet in my raised gray stone sink (got it for a steal on eBay), I let the water warm while I pulled out some moisturizer and night cream.

“So you’re really not going to help me?” Ferris asked, and the hurt and disbelief in his voice made my heart clench.

Ugh.

He floated behind me, his lean face wafting as though a breeze blew through my bathroom. His image rippled, but his eyes sought mine.

“Listen, Evanora, let’s talk real. I wasn’t a great person when I was alive. I never physically hurt anyone, but I probably emotionally wrecked plenty of folks in my forty-two years. I lied and cheated, conned people, I stole stuff and—” He stopped short and swallowed. “I just wasn’t a good person is all, and I know that. But what if the person who killed me wants that spoon just like I did? I’m just a boy, standing in front of a girl, asking her to help me find out who murdered him.”

That made me pause as I lathered my face. A Knotting Hill reference was always welcome. But I remained silent. No romantic comedy would sway me. He was a thief. The end.

Ferris sat on the sink and implored me with his eyes again. “What if the person who killed me was there for the same reason I was, and he’s still out there, waiting to kill the Swansons next?”

Now I really paused and looked at him square in the face, my heart chugging a little faster. “The Swansons still have the spoon?”

A spoon. I couldn’t believe we were talking about someone being murdered over a stinkin’ spoon.

“I’m pretty sure, unless whoever killed me stole it already. But I don’t think so, because just as I was kicking the bucket, I heard a car door shut, and then the stomp of running feet. As my vision grew bleary, death waiting in the wings, I saw feet running away, but it was blurry and I can’t remember a full description. I don’t think they got their hands on anything before they got spooked.”

“‘Death waiting in the wings’? How poetic. Maybe you should have been a writer instead of a criminal.”

His expression was wry. “It certainly would have been a more honest way to starve.”

I fought a laugh and narrowed my eyes as I exfoliated, my brain churning while I toyed with theories I had no business forming. “You’re telling me you really never saw who whacked you?”

“Nope. I heard someone come in the front door and I skedaddled as fast as my size tens would take me to the back door. Whoever it was, they got me good. I remember falling down the back steps, my brain feeling like it was gonna ooze outta my ears. I heard that car door I mentioned, and someone’s feet running, and then it was lights out. Now I’m here with you.”

“All that and you never got the spoon. Bummer.”

“Tell me about it,” he groaned.

Using a soft cloth, I returned to exfoliating my face. “So hold on here. Let’s go back to the spoon. How did the Swansons get the spoon to begin with?”

He rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “Are you ready for this?”

I snorted as I rinsed my face, letting the lukewarm water soothe my skin. “I’m talking to a dead guy. I’m pretty sure I’m ready for the four horsemen.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression a little smug. “She bought it for three bucks at the local thrift store. She collects spoons, and she thought it would be pretty in her collection, but she has no idea what it’s really worth.”

The local thrift store was a favorite haunt of mine, owned by the Benedettos. I’d gone to school with their daughter Rosemary. Why didn’t I ever find anything like that?

“She found it at Gift of Thrift? Seriously?”

“Of all the luck, right?”

“And how did you know Mrs. Swanson bought the spoon?”

“Let’s just say I overheard a conversation about her buying it.”

In all of this, I’d never asked about the spoon’s value. “How much is this spoon worth, anyhow?”

Ferris rubbed his slender fingers together. “Mucho dinero. As in, it’s priceless, baby.”

“How do you know it’s priceless? And if it’s priceless, why is it still with the Swansons? Why hasn’t the Italian government come and taken it from them? Isn’t that how it works when you find a priceless artifact from a foreign country?”

He shrugged in a decidedly evasive manner. “Because they don’t know she has it, of course. I mean, I don’t know how it works, Evanora. I’ve never had a priceless artifact before. This was gonna be my first one.”

Putting some toothpaste on my toothbrush, I said with great suspicion, “You didn’t answer my first question. How do you know the spoon’s priceless? If the Benedettos didn’t know, and the Swanson’s don’t know, how does Ferris Leopold—a shoplifter, no less—know he has the right spoon?”

His lips thinned. “I just know. Like you said, I’m a thief. I make it my business to know.”

I began to brush my teeth, giving them a good scrub, annoyed with this whole deal. Ferris was purposefully evasive, but why? Was he really worried about the Swansons’ lives?

I mean, he was a thief, but was he a heartless one?

Something was starting to smell rotten in Denmark, and I was too tired to buy into this without some facts and answers. Apparently, Ferris wasn’t prepared to give me the details I wanted, and I wasn’t into fishing for them.

Rinsing my teeth without a word, I patted on some face cream and left the bathroom, turning the lights off on the way.

Padding to my bedroom, I instructed my smart home device to turn the lights on and set about unmaking my bed with Ferris still hot on my heels.

As I pulled down the creamy gray-striped duvet, I tapped the mattress to let the dogs know it was time to cuddle. Clicking on my heating pad, I set it on the bed and climbed in, snuggling under the covers until both dogs took their usual positions on either side of my body. Then I instructed my smart device to turn the lights off.

“Evanora, what just happened? Now what did I do?”

Sighing, I rubbed my temples. “You know what you did, Ferris. I asked for complete honesty from the beginning and you’re not being totally honest. I have zero time to waste with your games about islands. You’re hiding something. I mean, I don’t want to stereotype, but by your own admission, you’re a petty thief. So how does a guy like you know about a centuries-old priceless spoon, and how did you know it was at the thrift store? I find I’m not all that interested in figuring out what you’re hiding. Now go back to the afterlife.”

Rather suddenly, he hovered over my bed, lying horizontally above me, his translucent face fallen. “But what about the Swansons? What if someone tries to hurt them? Don’t you care that they could end up dead?”

“If no one knows about how priceless this alleged spoon is, then I’m guessing that’s not why someone killed you.”

Resting his chin on his arms, he asked, “Then why did I end up murdered, if not for the spoon?”

“First, because you’re a crim-in-al with a cap on the letter C. Any number of people could have been out for you. Second, because to hear you tell it, no one knows how valuable the spoon is, Ferris! I don’t even think you knew about the spoon. It’s not like you’re some kind of artifact specialist. You shoplifted and robbed people.”

He nodded, his hair falling over his forehead, giving him a boyish look. “Yep. I sure did, but I never killed anyone, and I don’t want the Swansons to get whacked for the spoon. Do you?”

No way was he going to put this guilt on me.

But did I? Knowing what I knew, even if it was only half true, that still meant someone could hurt the Swansons if she still had the spoon.

That wasn’t going to happen. Not on my watch.

I let a lot of cussing run rampant in my brain before I looked up at him with a resigned sigh. “Fine, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll see if Mrs. Swanson still has the spoon. How’s that? At least then we’ll know whether she’s in immediate danger or not, and I’ll figure out a way to alert the police.”

“With an anonymous tip?” he taunted.

“How do you… Never mind. I’m sure the See-Throughs told you all about Felicia Fallstaff. So yes, likely it’ll be an anonymous tip. We good now?”

He looked relieved, but only a little before his eyes pinned me to the bed. “What if she doesn’t have it anymore? What if the person who killed me took the spoon?”

I shrugged and tucked the blanket around my chin. “Then they’ll have what they want and the Swansons are safe, right? Unless you’re lying to me, and you weren’t there to steal a spoon at all and someone killed you because you’re a bad guy…”

He rolled over quicker than I could blink and shook his head, holding up one hand. “Swear I’m not lying. Swear it. But…”

My ears perked up. “But?”

“What if she does have the spoon, Evan? Will you promise to go to the police so she’ll be safe?”

I had zero idea how I’d explain to the police why I had all this information about a spoon, but I’d figure something out, I suppose.

Ferris appeared almost adamant that I protect Mrs. Swanson, and I wasn’t sure I understood why he was so invested.

Criminals are without a doubt selfish, they take what they want, when they want it, because they don’t want to take the time to earn it. I didn’t understand his almost frantic concern.

Tucking my pillow under my head, I asked, “Why are you so worried about Mrs. Swanson’s life, Ferris?”

He stared at me for a long time before he said, “Because I’m not as selfish as you’d think?”

I thinned my lips in disapproval. “Nah. That’s not it. What is it?”

“Fine. Honesty, right? Not that it matters much now, but she has a special place in my heart.”

“So not only were you stealing, you were stealing from someone you knew and liked? Ferris! For shame!”

He rolled to his back and crossed his feet at the ankles, letting his arms dangle in the air. “I know, I know. I’m a total jerk. You said to be honest.”

“I did. So how do you know Mrs. Swanson?”

“I used to have a crush on her.”

I blinked. As I recalled, Fab had told me the Swansons were in their late seventies. “Um, used to? Isn’t she at least thirty years older than you?”

“Thirty-five, if you must know.”

What was I getting myself into?

“Don’t make it weird,” he chastised me with a wrinkle of his nose. “I had a crush on her when I was just a kid. She used to be my first-grade teacher.”

Gasp.

Chapter Seven

I didn’t sleep well—not at all, thanks to Ferris. I spent a good portion of the night wondering if I should go to the Swansons’ house to see if the couple was safe. But Ferris assured me they were out of town until today. He claimed he’d heard the police say as much when they were loading his body into the morgue’s van—which he tells me is one of the freakier experiences he’s ever had.

Funny that, eh?

“So wait, a spoon, Evan? Really?” Fab cupped her hand over her eyes to block the mid-morning sun as we stood on the road in front of the Swansons’ cute little ranch house.

It was eerily quiet along the street, almost as if someone hadn’t been murdered here yesterday. The weather had turned a bit nippy, making me tuck my chin into my hoodie and nod as a brisk wind blew, knocking more colorful leaves to the ground, swishing them about our feet.

“Yep. Really. Ferris says it’s worth a lot of money, and listen, if this story is true, if Mrs. Swanson really does still have the spoon, they could be in danger. I won’t sleep at night if I’m not sure they’ll be okay. I hardly slept at all last night and they weren’t even here in town.”

Fab ran a hand over her sleek low pony and flipped it back over her shoulder. “And how do we know it really is valuable? He’s a criminal, right? Since when are they purveyors of truth?”

I pulled my phone from my hoodie and held up several articles on the spoon. I’d surfed the web a bit more over my low-cholesterol breakfast of oatmeal and blueberries.

They didn’t help me much more than the first article, but they did provide a way to tell if the spoon was real, and they did confirm it was priceless.

I tapped the face of my phone. “This article says it’s real, Fab. It says the spoon exists, that it was lost or stolen after the war and no one knows where it is. Several articles say the same thing. They also say it’s priceless.”

“And how do you know he’s telling the truth about why he was here in the first place? How does a two-bit criminal know about priceless spoons anyway? Maybe he was just here to loot the joint and hit the road and he’s making this bit up about the spoon.”

“Because my gut says otherwise. My gut says that’s a pretty elaborate story to get me to help him.”

She handed me the Styrofoam cup of coffee she always brought me when we worked together on a project, made exactly the way I like it. “And what was he going to do with the spoon once he got his filthy thieving hands on it?”

“Hey! That’s mean!” Ferris complained with a whine from atop the gorgeous maple tree limb where he perched, looking down at us. His long legs dangled and his feet swung back and forth.

“Ferris!” I hissed upward into the blue of the sky. “Dude, c’mon! What are my rules? We went over them only last night. I swear, you guys are like a passel of toddlers. I told you I’d give a yell if and when I had something to share. Now go so I can do what I came to do.”

Fab looked to the spot I was looking at and narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, Ferris. Go back to the…the…sky!” she spat with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“The sky?” I sputtered with a laughing snort, covering my mouth so if anyone was outside they wouldn’t hear me.

Fab wrinkled her nose and made a face. “Up. Go up, or wherever it is he goes. You know what I mean. I hate being watched. This whole ghost gig gives me the crawlies right up my spine sometimes, Evan.” Fab shivered for emphasis.

When I first told her I’d seen a ghost sitting on the edge of my hospital bed, she’d been one of my skeptics, for sure. And who could blame her, right? Ghosts? I mean, c’mon. But the more ghosts that appeared and the more I was forced into this ghost-talking thing, the less skeptical she became.

In fact, she was the first person to believe me. Really, truly believe me. Not that I go shouting this new ability from rooftops. Not at all. But my other dad, Cedrick, had his doubts, too, until I told him something only Knightly would know about him.

Zoinks, had that been a conversation I’d rather not rehash.

Anyway, Fab was my biggest supporter. She’d been all about telling me how everything was going to be fine—just fine. That maybe it’d even be like the show Ghost Whisperer.

When I’d become a bit withdrawn due to the onslaught of ghosts while I was recuperating from my surgery, she’d put a positive spin on it by reminding me of all the cute clothes and amazing hairdos Jennifer Love-Hewitt had.

But for Fab’s part, I admit that knowing someone you can’t see or hear, can see and hear you, is a lot to digest.

Squeezing her arm, I shot her a sympathetic smile. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She wagged a finger at me. “Don’t you dare apologize to me, Evanora Dark. You have a gift. Granted, it’s straight out of a horror movie and not at all like The Ghost Whisperer—I mean, as a for instance, look at your wardrobe, right? Not even a little like J-Love’s.”

I looked down at my jeans with the holes in the knees and frowned. “I don’t work in a cute antique store. I stage houses and carry heavy things. I can’t wear thigh-high boots and hair extensions, Fab.”

“What I’m saying is, this isn’t all fun and games and still you stick with it. You do it because you’re a good person, Evan. Because you want to help. You act tough as nails on the outside, but your insides are gooey cheese. Don’t ever discount that or apologize for it. Not to me, sister.”

I reached for her and gave her a hug, my heart glad I had her in my life. “I love you, Fab.”

She pinched my cheek with affection. “I know. I love you, too. Now, back to the thief.”

Before Ferris could open his mouth, I held up a warning finger. “What were we saying?”

Fab looked at me with a serious gaze. “I’m going to bring this up once more because it’s bugging me. How do you know this Ferris was really trying to steal a spoon? Maybe he was trying to steal all her money or jewelry, you know, à la your pops,” she whispered.

I gave her a bland look and pointed to the house. “Does it look like the Swansons have much of value? She’s a nice old lady who was Ferris’s first-grade teacher. She collects spoons, for pity’s sake. Why would he lie about trying to steal something when he really was trying to steal something?”

Fab gave me a skeptical look but she let her theory go. “Who is he, anyway? Did we go to school with him?”

Shaking my head, I sighed. “Nope. He’s younger than us by eleven years. He told me he has no address because he lived everywhere and nowhere.”

Fab scoffed. “A real nomad, huh?”

“Or homeless. I don’t know. It’s not like I can search his place of residence. So that’s out. I also poked around on his Facebook page. He doesn’t have a huge social media presence, so what I found was pretty basic info. He’s from Salem, listed his job as Professor of Fun.”

“I guess that tells us everything we need to know about Ferris Leopold, doesn’t it?” She took a long swig of her coffee and gave me a thoughtful look. “Something else I’m wondering. Why doesn’t Ferris look for this spoon himself? Can’t he just pop into the Swansons’ house and snoop around? He didn’t have any trouble doing that before when he was thieving.”

“All right! Enough with the name-calling!” Ferris bellowed, floating down behind Fab’s back to stick his tongue out at the backside of her head. “How did someone as nice as you end up with this viper for a BFF?”

“That’s it, Ferris. You’d better get moving, buddy or I’m going to drop you and your murder like a bad habit. I’m just enough on the fence about helping you that I’ll walk away. Got it? Hit the road and let me do this before I chicken out. I’m probably going to have to lie my way in there, and I suck donkey doodads at lying.”

I saw his lips begin to form a protest, but I pointed my finger up at the sky. “Go. Now.” When he disappeared in a misty haze of quickly evaporating smoke, I turned back to Fab and sighed. “As a ghost, he can’t lift things or open doors. If the spoon is in a cabinet or something, he wouldn’t be able to get to it. Plus, according to Papasan, ghosts typically can only visit a medium or those they were close to in life.”

Fab tightened her trench coat belt. “One more question before we do this, Ev.”

I leaned back against my truck’s door and nodded, squinting into the sunlight peeking out from the line of trees along the quaint road. “Go.”

“How does a guy like Ferris know about an ancient spoon that’s priceless? How random is it that he overheard something about it? That seems unbelievably unlikely. So what isn’t he telling you?”

I looked up at the sky as if to say to Ferris, See? It’s not just me. “I don’t know, Fab. All I know is if the Swansons were hurt over this, I’d die. Better safe than sorry.”

“Okay, I’m in. So what’s our mission today, Captain?” she asked with a grin.

Gulping, I thought about trying to get inside the Swansons’ house and how we were going to do that. “Talk to Mrs. Swanson and see if she still has the spoon without outright asking her if she has the spoon. If she doesn’t, I walk, do that anonymous call thing to the police, and give them a heads up about this godforsaken spoon and let this mess be.”

“And if she does have this infernal spoon?”

Sighing, I ran my hand over my eyes, tired already and the day hadn’t even begun. “I don’t know. Stop asking me hard questions,” I demanded with a chuckle. “I guess I’ll do the same thing. Call the police anonymously and tell them I know why Ferris Leopold was killed, and I know where the item he was killed for is located?”

Fab leaned up against the truck door next to me and nudged my shoulder with a disappointed scoff. “And let the coppers have all the credit again.”

“That’s not fair, young lady. I wouldn’t even know about the spoon if not for Ferris to begin with. Besides, if I’m going to walk away, how can I take credit for anything?”

Fab’s eyes glittered beneath the sun. “Because you’re not going to walk away, Evanora. You won’t. I know you. You won’t rest until the spoon is found and Ferris’s killer in in the pokey.”

“Shhh!” I hissed, giving her a stern look and a nudge to the ribs. “I don’t want him to know that. He’s a thief. I’m not sure he deserves help.”

She grabbed my hand and began pulling me to the door. “I already said that, but that doesn’t seem to have deterred you. So let’s skip the pretense and do what needs to be done to get rid of those racoon eyes you’re sporting today.”

I dug the heels of my sneakers into the soft ground to stall, slippery-wet leaves squishing under my feet. “Wait! What are we going to say to her?”

Fab winked and grinned. “Just you leave that to me and follow my lead. C’mon,” she coaxed, tugging me to the cheerful red front door where a wreath hung, one with fall leaves and a bedraggled scarecrow in the middle.

Sucking in a breath, I gave control up to Fab and the universe.

Really, what other choice did I have?

* * *

“So like I was saying, Mrs. Dell—”

“Call me Nanette,” Mrs. Swanson’s daughter said with a pat to Fab’s knee and a red-lipstick-smudged smile. “Everyone does.”

“We had no idea there was a murder here! How awful for you and your parents.” Fab had charmed her way into the Swansons’ with nothing more than a smile and a story made of the weakest alibi ever.

That she was lying, and the idea we might get caught in that lie, had me sitting at the edge of my plastic-covered seat.

Nanette swished around her coffee in a faded #1 Teacher mug. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am they were visiting us in Marblehead, and not here when this happened.”

Fab widened her eyes and nodded in sympathy. Shoot, she was good at this.

“Us, too!” She leaned into me and gave me the BFF nudge in an obvious effort to remind me to participate. “Right, Evan?”

I cleared my throat and nodded awkwardly, forcing myself to look into Nanette Dell’s coal-lined eyes. “Ye-yes. I’m so glad they weren’t here. So did you say your parents are staying with you for a while, Mrs…um, Nanette?”

She bounced her auburn head, the tight curl of her bangs dancing, holding up a finger with a shortly clipped nail. “You bet they are. My Herbert and I have been trying to talk them into coming to live with us forever. They’re not getting any younger, you know. I want them to enjoy their twilight years and now…well, now, who knows if this crazy yahoo meant to kill one of my parents? No way are we taking any chances. They’re staying put until this is solved.”

Fab sipped her coffee from a chipped blue floral mug and nodded once more. “I’m in total agreement. If something like this happened at my mama’s house, I’d chain her to my side.”

Nanette laughed, but then she sighed wistfully, setting her coffee down and folding her pudgy hands in her lap. “My parents are such good, solid folk, you know? I can’t imagine who’d want to rob them, never mind murder someone here. They’re true pillars of the community and Buttermilk Bay has always been such a safe place.”

“So the police think it was a robbery gone bad?” I asked, trying my best to sound as though I knew nothing, even when I knew far more than I should.

Guilt ate at my guts, dining on my culpability, but then I reminded myself I was doing this for the greater good.

If the Swansons had a spoon that was priceless, they deserved to know they were set for several lifetimes.

Nanette let her hand drop to the plastic-covered chair in a room full of plastic-covered, plaid furniture. “That’s what they tell us, which is why I’m here to pick up some of their things and get stuff in order. The police agree it’s best to keep them with me. They sent someone from our local police station to question them yesterday afternoon. I got permission to come pick up some of their things, so I hopped in the car first thing this morning. One of the Buttermilk Bay detectives was just here with me, actually, making sure I didn’t touch anything that’s part of the crime scene.”

My clammy hands clung to my cup of coffee. “Did you find anything missing? Anything of value?”

“There really wasn’t anything of value to begin with,” Nanette assured us with a knowing smile. “Mom was a teacher and Dad was a grocery store manager. They weren’t exactly rolling in the dough. But if you’re wondering if they stole the TV or the ancient VCR, nope. Look around. It’s all still here.”

She almost sounded disappointed by that, and I understood. The old TV was from the ’90s, if it was a day, and sure enough, sitting on the scarred shelf beneath it was a VCR.

Oh, the good times rushing to get a new release at Blockbuster. Remember?

“You’re a good daughter,” Fab assured her with a brilliant smile.

Of course, while Fab was scoring all the points, I was preparing to ask stupid questions that made zero sense out of context. “Anything in particular your mom wanted you to bring back with you?”

Like a priceless spoon?

Ugh.

Nanette looked at me, her cheerfully round face curtained by perm-curled, chin-length hair, and frowned. “I don’t know what you mean?”

I licked my dry lips nervously, but Fab saved me again as she grabbed Nanette’s hand and pulled her upward. “She means, did you remember all the essentials. You know, all her lady things.” Then she giggled as though she were a conspirator. “Let’s go take a peek around while you grab what you need for your parents, and I’ll give you a rough estimate of what I think we can sell this gem for, yes?”

But Nanette hesitated, stopping midway to the long hallway of green shag carpeting. “Oh, I don’t know if they’ll agree to sell, Fabiola. I mean, we were only in the talking stages before this happened. As you can see, they were in the middle of renovating the bathroom.”

I looked to the sheetrock dust on the floor and slabs of sheetrock lying against the hallway wall.

Fab winked and continued encouraging Nanette toward the back bedrooms. “That makes it a perfect time to see where we’re at in terms of pricing. This way, you can go back and tell your mom exactly what to expect if you can talk them into selling and living with you and Herbert, right? Nothing official. No contracts signed, no ‘for sale’ sign in the front yard. Just a friendly quote from your local realtor—no harm, no foul. And with the bathroom renovation, it only makes this little gem that much more valuable.”

Nanette’s body language relaxed and her shoulders loosened beneath her yellow button-down sweater. “You’re right. It can’t hurt. It might even help my cause.”

Fab patted Nanette’s thick arm. “And I don’t suppose you’d mind if Evan poked around a bit? She is, after all, an interior design genius, and if your folks go along with the plan to move to Marblehead, we’ll want to give this place a quick zhuzh, yes? Maybe a bit of an update? Evan is brilliant at pulling every last ounce of cash out of a homebuyer with her fancy throw pillows and vases, aren’t you, Ev?”

I didn’t need to bother with an answer. Nanette was already letting Fab pull her down the hall with a nod of agreement. Meaning, I had a few moments to give everything a good once-over and look for that spoon.

I thanked the universe for Fab yet again. I’d become so tongue-tied, knowing darn well I was lying through my pearly whites to Nanette, that I felt like a jerk. My BFF had bought me some time, and I planned to use it well.

Also, for the record, I’m no genius at this. I don’t know diddly squat about a lot of fancy designer terms or the names for the varieties of décor styles and fabrics.

I’m simply a lover of aesthetics. I love making things pretty, and while the Swansons had a cute little cottage-like ranch, it needed a lot of zhuzhing to update it. There was more green shag carpet in here than a ’70s porn movie. I get that you love what you love, but the carpet truly had seen better days. Maybe if this spoon thing panned out, they could afford some updates.

Taking a deep breath, I began in the most obvious place. And thinking back now, we probably could have wormed a conversation out of Nanette about the spoons. It was obvious Mrs. Swanson was a collector.

She had an entire curio cabinet of Hummels and a hutch filled to the brim with blue floral dishes and candles. Her kitchen, galley-long with dark brown cabinets and white appliances, was an homage to her love of teddy bears. There was teddy bear cannisters and teddy bear potholders tacked up behind the stove under the worn range hood.

But no spoons.

There were loads of other collectibles, but I didn’t see any spoons, and that left me suspicious. Maybe Fab was right and Ferris the Friendly Ghost was a liarpants.

I completely avoided looking into the backyard from the window over the sink. Ferris’s death was hitting me a little harder today, and I couldn’t figure out if the problem was just that it hadn’t sunk in before now, or I was becoming jaded to death.

But I didn’t have time to dwell or psychoanalyze my feelings.

I ran my fingers over the chipped yellow Formica countertop and popped open a drawer to see if maybe Mrs. Swanson had kept her collection tucked away, but I didn’t find much other than you’re your average everyday silverware and some more teddy-themed hand towels.

I even checked on top of the white fridge, yellowed from time, but I didn’t find much. Just some bags of chips and old hot dog buns.

As I heard Fab and Nanette approach, my disappointment was real. I guess my gut was out of order because I’d believed Ferris.

Maybe I’d only wanted to believe him because I loved solving mysteries, and aside from my true-crime podcasts and repeats on Investigation ID, I’d been absorbed in work with little downtime—if you can call murder downtime, that is.

As Fab entered the kitchen, she looked to me and with only my eyes, I was able to convey to her I hadn’t found anything.

My best friend planted her hands on her slender hips and smiled her dazzling smile. “Boy, your mom sure was a collector, huh? Look at all the teddy bears!” Fab cooed.

Nanette chuckled, dry and husky. “What didn’t she collect? You shoulda seen her Franklin Mint plate collection. Sakes alive! I finally talked her into selling them at a garage sale. She had more plates than walls to put ’em on. In fact, just this morning, I brought some stuff over to the thrift store. She won’t even know it’s gone, but if I can talk her into moving in with me, I only have so much space. Somethin’s gotta go.”

Brought some stuff to the thrift store…

Naw. No way. That would be too much of a coincidence, wouldn’t it?

I tried to sound calm even though my insides had turned into a Simone Biles floor exercise as I asked, “Really? What else did she collect?”

Nanette crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, for instance, today I hauled over some Good Housekeeping magazines from 1965, ten tins of old buttons—ten!” she crowed. “A craft store’s worth of yarn and, of all things, some spoons.”

Thankfully, I managed to hold in my groan of defeat, but Ferris didn’t. He let go of a long hiss of air right in my ear followed by a word I can’t repeat.

But it starts with an F and ends with…well, you get the picture.

Chapter Eight

“Well, poo,” Fab moaned as we headed out to our respective vehicles after saying our goodbyes to Nanette and sending our regards to the Swansons.

“A big stinky one,” I remarked on a sigh.

“Of all the coincidences, huh?” she said in reference to us being right back where we started. No spoon.

Rolling my eyes, I agreed. “Tell me about it. But forget that for a second. Did I mention how fabulous you are at this? You’re like Meryl Streep wrapped up in Julia Roberts or something.”

She smiled coyly at me from over her shoulder. “P’shaw. Don’t talk nonsense. I was just doing what I do every day, but with a dramatic twist. Don’t kid yourself into thinking if the Swansons decide to sell, I won’t be at their door. Fixed up, this could go for some nice bucks.”

Laughing, I remembered Fab was always about the end game. “Still, you’re quite the actress. However will I thank you for covering up my blunders while I stomped around that conversation with my size eights?”

Fab squeezed my arm with a snicker. “You weren’t that bad. But if you really want to twist my arm and force me to let you make it up to me, you can buy me dinner tonight at Haus of Schnitzel.”

“Correction, you mean Haus of Hottie,” I teased, tucking my hands into my hoodie.

Fab rolled her eyes, but they were gleaming under the mid-morning sun. “Yeah-yeah. Anyway, you were fine. You’re just not used to schmoozing to get what you want, but it’s how I earn my living. But forget that. What happens with this investigation now?”

“It’s not an investigation,” I said in protest.

“Okay, so what happens to this it’s-not-an-investigation investigation now?”

I glanced at my phone to check the time. “Now I get to work. I have an appointment in twenty with that real estate agent over on Winterhedge…his name escapes me.”

Fab made a face of disgust. “Vaughn. Vaughn Harland. Or freakishly disgusting jerk, whichever floats your boat.”

Ah, right. Fab despised Vaughn Harland, and for good reasons that had nothing to do with the idea that he was the competition. He was a misogynistic schlub who smelled like he dunked himself in a bottle of cologne each morning and talked to his reflection in the mirror as if he was the second coming.

He really was a jerk. He did all the jerk things jerks do. He made rude comments about women’s body parts like we didn’t live in 2022. He stared right at your chest rather than into your eyes with nary a regret. And he was arrogant. Worse, he did all of the above as though it was his right.

Mind you, I hadn’t dealt with him personally, but Fab had, and she’d put him in his place more than once. But I’d heard the stories, and I was ready.

“But the friendship rule still stands, right? Because you know I’ll hate him right along with you and refuse to throw my business his way if you want. It’s how we roll.”

Fab shook her head, beeping her cute red Mini Cooper open. “Nope. You know the rule we made about that. He’s money in the bank. He gets a lot of listings and he’ll bring a lot of work your way. We can’t let his ickiness and my disgust for him stand in the way of filling up your bank account. Friendship rules are on temporary suspension when it comes to putting food on the table, unless he gets too hinky. Then we run him out of town on a rail.”

Laughing, I blew a kiss to her. “Fair enough. Okay, let me scoot so I don’t give Mr. Misogyny a reason to grump at me while he’s trying to corner me and cop a feel.”

Fab’s eyes narrowed and she shook her finger at me. “You’d better tell me if he does. I’ll kick his can from here to Cape Cod!”

And she would. But then, so would I.

“Thanks again for your help. I’ll ring you later,” I called into the blustery day as I jumped into my truck and raced off toward my appointment.

As I drove alongside the ocean, choppy and growing colder by the day, I thought about how I’d head straight to Gifts of Thrift once I was done with this appointment.

No one would have bought those spoons yet, would they? I mean, they were spoons. Surely they had a longer shelf life than your average lamp or shawl.

“Evanora?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin and took out a huge oak tree when I looked to my right to find Ferris sitting beside me. As I was about to protest, he cut me off with a wave of his hands.

“I know, I know. I’m supposed to wait for you to call on me first, but I’m worried about the spoon being in the wild.”

Making a left into a subdivision, I bobbed my head. “So you were there for the whole conversation?”

He made a big deal of yawning. “The whole boring time.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Kudos to you for keeping your face shut and your body invisible. I was having a hard enough time lying through my teeth without you as a distraction.”

“So are we going to get the spoon now?”

Gripping the steering wheel, I didn’t bother to chastise him for showing up without an invitation, instead I said, “I’ve got an appointment, Ferris. Staging feeds me and mine. First a paycheck, then solving mysteries. Besides, what’s the rush? Finding the spoon isn’t going to help us find your killer, is it? All it’s going to do is set the Swansons up for life.”

His slender shoulders slumped and his eyes fixed on the floorboards. “No. I guess not. But let’s not forget, it’s a pretty expensive item to be floating around free-range, wouldn’t you say? Mostly I’m just anxious to know where it is so I can prove to you that I’m not a liar. Not all the time, anyway.”

He sounded so dejected and beaten down. Yet, there was something else in his voice, too. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. I was still convinced there was something he wasn’t telling me.

When I pulled up to the enormous colonial on Winterhedge with symmetrical windows and shutters on either side of the door, I felt a small stab of envy for the porch. The one thing I didn’t have in my cute mobile home.

Clearly an addition, a large porch with a stone floor and simple post pillars graced the front of this beauty.

A bunch of contractor vans and Vaugh’s flashy red Caddie sat along the curb. I threw my truck in park and turned to Ferris.

“Listen, you stay put. No interfering with money in the bank, okay? Also, I’m not going to have the people I hope to work with in the future think I’m one donut shy of a dozen because you’re yapping my ear off. I can’t have you distracting me by floating around and being a smarty-pants while I’m trying to earn a living.”

He gnawed on his transparent lip. “But we’ll go to the thrift store straight after, right?”

I gave myself a quick once-over in the rearview mirror, smoothing my windswept hair and freshening my pale peach lipstick. “I’m in, Ferris. Okay? I’ll help figure out who killed you if I can. So yeah, the thrift store it is.”

Now he grinned, and it wasn’t unpleasant. It reached his eyes and lightened his expression. The mid-morning sun glinted on his hair, casting a strange auburn glow to his roots. “Thanks, Evanora. And look at it this way, if we find that stupid spoon is at the thrift store, I almost won’t care who killed me.”

What a weird thing to say. Wasn’t that the whole point of this? To find out who’d killed him?

But I didn’t have time to pursue a line of questioning. Vaughn was headed straight for me, and I wanted to put a good amount of distance between us before he got to my truck door.

“Catch you later, Ferris,” I muttered as I hopped out of the truck and onto the cracked sidewalk, where I stuck out my hand to Vaughn Harland as a way of creating a boundary.

Tall, dark, metrosexual, groomed to within an inch of his life, and steeped in a cologne that almost made me gag—even with the cool breeze picking up—he sauntered up to me in an expensive navy suit and very shiny shoes.

“Evanora?” he asked, his voice smooth and low.

Cocking my head, I smiled briefly as I took his hand, the sun glinting off the shine of his hair gel. “Mr. Harland?”

He gripped my fingers lightly with clammy skin until I gave him a return firm handshake, making him momentarily respond with wide eyes before he did this peculiar eye-smolder thing at me. “The one and only, and please call me Vaughn. Fabiola didn’t tell me you were so,” he stopped and winked, “pretty.”

He was just shy of sucking his teeth as he gazed at my chest. Not that there was much to see, mind you. I had a hoodie on, for pity’s sake, and no bra (I love cold weather!). That meant my girls were not even remotely perky. But he took a long hard stare anyway.

Still, I was determined to return his focus to the job at hand—staging this monster of a house. The fee would bring a pretty penny and tide me over for a month or so if I didn’t book any more jobs this week. But as the silence grew between us, his stare grew more obvious and very uncomfortable.

Listen, I could pretend this is just the way it is. A man gawking at my body parts without a shred of shame because of that lame refrain about men being men—or because I need the work. It’s the era I come from. Put up and shut up and don’t cause trouble and all that rigamarole.

But no amount of money paid for a job would allow him this micro-aggression. I’m not that woman anymore.

Don’t get me wrong. I was never raised that way. My dads were devout equal opportunists in every way. Yet, society groomed me that way until I was well into my forties, right up until I had my heart attack.

After my heart attack and my dismissal from my soul-crushing job—not so much.

I’m not so rigid I can’t cut someone a little slack. I don’t get terribly upset when one of the senior gentlemen at the park tell me I should smile. I don’t chew their heads off and accuse them of telling me what to do. But in this day and age, Vaugh Harland was beyond bold.

So I cleared my throat, rocking back on my sneakers. “Mr. Harland? My eyes are in my face, not buried somewhere in my torso, and seeing as my mouth does all the talking, not my chest, I’d appreciate it if you’d look at my face when we talk or I think I’ll have to take a zero on this job…and pass on to others the reason why I’d sacrifice so much money. Do we understand each other?”

His eyes—his sparkling hazel eyes—went instantly dull, but they snapped upward and gazed at me with haughty arrogance. “We certainly do, Ms. Dark. Hashtag ‘metoo’ is all the rage these days, isn’t it?”

“It should be hashtag ‘itsabouttime,’ but I missed the part where we were taking a vote on movement titles. Either way, would you like to show me the space and we can get on with the business of doing business? Or shall I go?” I hitched a thumb over at my truck, daring him to dismiss me.

He swept a manicured hand up the long pathway leading to the black front door with a brushed gold door knocker, his gaze irritated. “After you.”

I trudged up the walkway, noting the pathway lighting and the artful landscaping. Plenty of mums to acknowledge the season and a big cast iron pot of marigolds in various shades of yellow and orange by the corner of the entrance.

I completely ignored the simmering vibe from Vaughn Harland, boring holes into my back, and climbed the stunning stone steps. I opened the door to the sound of workers’ hammers, a drill and a squealing chop saw.

Music to my ears.

Entering the foyer, I couldn’t help but let out a small gasp. It was gorgeous, and colonial isn’t even really my jam. From top to bottom, the wood flooring leading to the staircase and the rooms beyond was magic.

Pictures in muted greens and hues of blue—landscapes with sheep roaming over hills—hung in collages above a wrought-iron bench. A lush green fern sat upon its surface, next to a rustic table with a black spindle lamp.

As I took it all in, I asked, “So are we going for modern colonial? Historic? French?”

He scowled down at me, but he was scowling at my face—not my chest. “We can go for whatever kind of colonial you like, so long as it sells. This is a big job. Five bedrooms, four bathrooms, master suite, fireplaces in every room, a sun porch recently redone. It’s easily a week’s worth of staging. Go on and take a peek around while I handle some other details about the flip.”

Vaughn wandered off without another word, summarily dismissing me. So I did what he told me to do. I took a peek.

While I peeked, roaming from room to room, noting the kitchen and all its rustic flair, with modern appliances and a six-burner black and gold stove, I wondered about Ferris and who he really was. Where he came from. If he had any family.

As I took the steps to the second level and headed down the long hallway, I also wondered if Ferris had anyone he wanted me to contact. He hadn’t mentioned anyone, but what about parents? Siblings? Friends?

“Afternoon, Nugget!”

My stomach did a backflip. “Dad!” I hissed. “You’re going to give me another heart attack. What are you doing here? I thought we talked about this. I’m working.”

He gave me his best pouty look—or as good as it got for a man who was in his seventies. “I know, darling.”

I narrowed my eyes and paused, letting my heart rate slow down. “How did you know if you’re not doing the thing I asked you not to do?”

He frowned and planted his hands on his hips. “What thing?”

Taking a deep breath, I blew it out and continued making my way down the corridor to the master bedroom. “Watching me! You promised to give me my space and a warning if you were going to pay me a visit.”

He looked disgusted. “I wasn’t watching you, pretty girl. I overheard Fab say you were here.”

“So you were watching Fab? That’s creepy, Pops,” I scolded as I turned a right into the master bedroom to find a stunning four-poster bed and not much more.

“Young lady,” he chastised. “I was not watching her. I’d come to see if you’d like to have company at lunch, because you’re never far from Fab, and I overheard her telling someone where you were.”

I stood in the middle of the room and looked directly into the luxurious bathroom. This staging would be a pleasure…if I got the job after I’d given Vaughn a piece of my feminist mind.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I asked, “Who was she talking to?”

He shrugged his shoulders and floated over to the window. “Some big, gruff young man with silver hair and a jaw sculpted by Rodin himself.”

Instantly, Cary came to mind, and my pulse jittered. Then I caught myself because why would he be asking about me? “Cary?”

Knightly’s expression was aghast. “I don’t know, darling. I didn’t eavesdrop for long. But he seemed very eager to find you, sweet girl.”

I don’t pine for any man—no matter how much of a snack. Besides, it was probably a contractor or someone looking for a stager. I don’t know many contractors who have a chin sculpted by Rodin, but they’d find me if they needed me that badly.

“You’re still not supposed to be dropping in anywhere,” I whispered, looking to ensure no one else was around.

My father sighed. “I didn’t think it would be such a big hullabaloo, Nugget. It wasn’t as though I dropped in while you were indisposed. I knew you’d be with Fabiola today. You told me so yourself yesterday.”

He would never learn. “You didn’t think I would end up in the ER because you ‘dropped’ in either. But there I was.”

“Darling, will you always fan the flames of this burning grudge?”

“Boundaries, Dad. I’m creating boundaries.”

I made my way into the master bath with Knightly still hot on my heels, waiting for him to ask how my investigation was going, but we were interrupted by Vaughn.

“There you are,” he cooed, clicking his shiny shoes across the marble flooring. “Who were you talking to?”

I turned away from him and busied myself taking pictures of the shower and freestanding bronze tub with my phone. “Myself.”

I heard the rustle of his suit as he came closer. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

I moved toward the large, side-by-side oval mirrors above the gray marble vanity and faced him. “If you mean the foot where you stare at my chest and I call you out for being so obnoxious, then yes. You definitely started off on the wrong foot.”

“He did what?” I heard two ghostly voices gasp simultaneously.

Vaughn took a step closer to me, forcing me back against the long vanity. “I’m sorry you saw it that way.”

Ah, yes. The old “you must have imagined it, it’s not me, it’s you” rhetoric.

Nuh-uh. Today isn’t the day and I’m not the one.

Lifting my chin, I narrowed my gaze at him. “Um, no, Mr. Harland. I didn’t see it that way. That was the way, and I’m telling you right now, if you don’t back up far enough that I can’t smell the vanilla latte you had this morning on your breath, you’ll regret it.”

My father hovered over Vaughn, and if a ghostly presence could intimidate someone with their anger, Dad was sure making a go of it, with Ferris right behind him.

“You tell him, Ev!” Ferris cheered. “If I could, I’d slug him myself!”

Vaughn flipped both his hands up in the air, making his arms resemble chicken wings. But he didn’t back up. Instead, he leaned farther into my space. “Hey, now. Relax, would ya? I only took this meeting because Fabiola begged me to. Maybe you should think about the kind of connections you need in this business before you go accusing someone of something so serious.”

Ferris put up his dukes and waved them in front of Vaughn’s face, his eyes glittering. “Buddy, if you don’t back off the nice lady, I’m gonna knock your block off!”

“What he said!” my dad bellowed.

I stifled an annoyed sigh and tried to avoid admonishing my two knights in shining armor. “Vaughn, I asked you to back off. Now—back off.”

“Touchy-touchy,” he said with a lazy drawl, pushing his face into mine as if to dare me to try something.

Oh, if poor Vaughn only knew about my infamous temper. I’d fight a lion in a ring of fire if you pushed me far enough. I’d learned to curb it over the years, but I was known to snap from time to time.

I decided to give him one last chance. “This is your last warning, Vaughn. Back. Off,” I seethed in his face.

Then two things happened at once.

A gruff, super-sexy voice asked, “Did you hear the lady? She said, back off!” Just as Vaughn leaned in a half inch closer.

And I lost it. Plum lost my mind.

I slugged him right in the kisser.

Hard. Closed fist.

And full of intent to spill blood.

Chapter Nine

“Feel better?” Cary asked as we sat across from one another at Buttermilk Bay’s trendiest coffee shop, Eyes Wide Open Cafe.

He’d insisted I follow him here and take a moment to gather myself. Offering to buy me a coffee would probably have me following Satan, but when a guy who looks and smells like Cary Mann comes along, if he’s not a known criminal, you say yes.

Cary had sent Vaugh packing with a hand towel on his bloody nose and a warning to never come near me again, or he was going to take matters into his own hands.

His big, yummy, hard-laboring hands.

I winced. My hand throbbed, but there was no way I was going to tell him that. “I didn’t feel bad to begin with, to be honest. I know what I did was incredibly unprofessional, but he started it.”

And I didn’t feel bad that I’d finished it. Vaughn got what he asked for by egging me on.

I know, I know. Violence is never the answer, but I’m not a fan of being cornered, and I did ask as nicely as possible—more than once. If I ask you to back off, believe you’d better back off. I’m no longer willing to put up with all the nonsense and misogyny I once put up with to keep a job.

There’s a freedom to knowing you only have yourself to support, and I was embracing it.

Cary smiled. Wowzers, it was sexy. He flashed his whiter-than-white teeth at me from a face tanned from being outdoors. “Don’t shoot, okay? I just want to be sure your hand is all right. Lemme take a look, would you?”

I grudgingly gave him my right hand, palm down. He fastidiously studied my knuckles while I fastidiously studied the top of his silver head, shutting out the busy café buzzing with life around us. “We should get you some ice for this.”

I couldn’t stand the hot tingle in my hand anymore, so I pulled away, reluctantly breaking our contact. “I’m fine. Really, Cary. Sorry you had to bear witness to that. I’m not usually so untamed when they let me out of my cage.”

He leaned back in his chair as if to show me his abs were made of steel beneath his tight T-shirt. “Don’t apologize to me. Vaughn’s a creeper. He deserved whatever he got. If you hadn’t slugged him first, I would have done it. He pulls garbage like that with all the pretty women who cross his path.”

He thought I was pretty? Aw, man, I felt a case of the girlies coming on. A case where I twirled my hair and fluttered my eyelash extensions at him.

Not cool, Evan.

Still, I relaxed a little and laughed. “I have a really bad temper. I’m mostly socially acceptable, but every once in a while, I forget what they taught me in anger management and see red.”

He grinned again, revealing two deep grooves on either side of his mouth. “You took anger management classes? Docile wallflower like you?”

Looking down into my mug, I fought the shame I was now feeling for reacting so unprofessionally, despite his joke. “My company made everyone take them. I wasn’t court-ordered specifically, if that’s what you’re wondering. I have a bad temper, but I’m not throwing up gang signs and cage fighting.”

“Company?” he inquired with a raised eyebrow as he took a sip of his coffee from a big pink mug—the coffee shop’s signature color.

I traced the rim of my latte cup with a finger. “I used to work in HR. For many soul-crushing years.”

Cary half smiled, planting his chin on the heel of his hand. My dad was right, he did have a chin that looked like it’d been sculpted by Rodin. “And now you’re staging houses, huh?”

“And now I’m staging houses.” I paused for a moment, the sudden rush of adrenaline and the oncoming crash beginning to make me sluggish. “What about you? Did you always do contract work, or did you just come here to take over the business for your dad?”

I kept it light, but what I really wanted to ask was, are you single? Were you always single? Do you have children?

I gave myself an internal shake. What was happening to me? I’d never reacted this way to a man—not even my ex-husband. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve dated plenty of guys over the years, but never had I taken this kind of instantaneous interest in one.

Cary folded his hands in front of him on the teak wood table. “Nope. I was an architect and when I found myself designing nothing but parking garages and hotels, I decided it was time to find something else to do until retirement. Just so happened my dad needed me here when I was ready to call it quits. So here I am.”

Oh, yeah. Here he was in all his big, sexy gruffness.

Holy crow.

I squared my shoulders and sat up when I noticed everyone in the cafe was looking at us.

Living in a small town had its advantages and its disadvantages. This was one of the latter. Everyone in town knew I was single. I could see all the little matchmakers’ gears turning in their heads. They’d have me planning my walk down the aisle with Cary by tomorrow from all the gossip merely sitting together would stir up.

I really needed to get to the thrift store and look into that spoon before I turned into a puddle of goo. “Listen, thanks for the coffee and the cooling-off period, Cary, but I have to get going.” I stood and reached over to grab a napkin, immediately wincing. I rubbed at my chest to ease the sting.

The muscles in my chest are still tight since my surgery—even after three years. Sometimes, one wrong move and it hurts a bit.

Cary was instantly on his feet, reaching for me, when we somehow collided. “You okay?”

When I realized our bodies were touching and mine was on fire, but not in the pain-of-my-bursitis kind of way, I nearly hopped backward. “I’m fine. Sometimes my scar still pulls.”

The moment the words left my lips was the moment I wanted to suck them back into my big fat mouth.

Now Cary looked even more concerned, his blue eyes searching mine as he towered over me. “Your scar?”

I wore my scar like a badge of honor most times. It reminded me of how’d I’d gotten here and what was important in life. Yet, sometimes it annoyed me. The doctors who’d performed the surgery obviously decided they needed a twenty-first century version of Frankenstein, because they’d taken very little care when they’d filleted me like a fish.

My scar was jagged and ugly, and still a little pink. It ran in a crooked line from just under my collar bone to the top of my upper abdomen. Pinches of fatty flesh between my breasts were just the icing on my heart attack cake.

While they were cutting me up, they’d also fixed my carotid artery. So if the scar on my chest wasn’t enough, they’d gifted me with another down the left side of my neck.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful. They saved my life. I only wish they could have done a neater job of it.

Cary stared down at me, his eyes filled with worry.

Flapping my hands, I stuffed the napkin in the pocket of my hoodie while everyone in the café watched us. Oh, the tongues would wag tonight at dinner over clam chowder and biscuits.

“It’s no big deal. I had a quad bypass a couple years ago and as nuts as it sounds, my scar still stings sometimes. I think it’s my reminder to quit pretending I’m Mike Tyson.”

He threw his silvery gray head back and laughed, a deep, pleasant chuckle that made my battered ticker jump in my chest. “You really roundhoused him. It was beautiful. Add in the fact that you had a quad bypass and I tip my hat to you. I think I’m even a little scared of you,” he teased.

My cheeks turned pink, and I was just shy of fanning myself. “It was impulsive and wrong, but thanks for the backup.”

“Anytime,” he rumbled.

I swallowed hard, a little lost in the moment and the scent of his cologne, when I heard someone in the far-off, muffled distance call my name.

“Evanora?”

Cary cleared his throat and the spell cast over us was instantly broken. “I’ll wait outside for you. Afternoon, ladies,” he said with a polite dip of his head before taking his leave.

I turned to find Della Moore, eighty if she was a day, baker extraordinaire and the maker of the best chicken and dumplings to ever grace a plate, staring at me.

Her wrinkled frown expressed concern as she placed a hand on my arm. “You all right, punkin’? Me and the girls heard about what happened yesterday over at the Swansons with you and Fabiola.”

The “girls” were her pack of seniors, friends since their school days. Della Moore led the passel of them in everything they did. Community work, charity drives, quilting bees, and organizing the Buttermilk Bay Fourth of July parade.

For all my life, they’d each represented a loving stereotype to me. Della was the logical thinker, compassionate and funny.

Latrice Mayfield was a little ditzy and nervous, but sweet as cherry pie, and Cora Niven was the no-nonsense, sensible-shoe-wearer of the bunch. She didn’t take any guff, for which she had my endless admiration.

As far back as I can remember, they’d always been best friends and fiercely protective of one another and their beloved Buttermilk Bay. According to my dads, they’d also been strong advocates in favor of gay marriage, and they made sure everyone knew it.

These three women, gossipy as they were, held a special place in my heart.

I patted Della’s hand, giving it a squeeze and pressing a quick kiss to her wrinkled cheek. “We’re fine, Miss Moore. Promise. Gotta run!”

I hoped to hurry her along so I might hit the thrift shop before my afternoon appointment, but when I tried to pass her, she gripped my arm harder. That Zumba class at the rec center must really be paying off—she had a grip of iron.

“You don’t look fine,” she fretted. “You look flushed.”

“That’s because of hot pants over there. Cary Mann was holding her hand,” Latrice Mayfield cackled over Della’s shoulder, tucking her snow-white bob behind her ears.

I rolled my eyes and grinned at them. “He was not, Miss Latrice. We were having a cup of coffee. Not a make-out session.”

Cora Niven sidled up to the group with a derisive snort. “Didn’t look like that from way over there. Looked like you were makin’ eyes at each other.”

“Maybe you’d better check those glasses for distance, Miss Cora,” I suggested. “You’re seeing things. Or maybe it’s whatever Della puts in her pies that’s making you hallucinate? What’s in those yummy pies anyway, Miss Della?”

They all giggled like schoolgirls, but then Miss Latrice grew serious. She tucked the colorful scarf around her neck a little tighter as she smoothed a hand over her robin’s egg blue track suit. “We’re all laughin’ and jokin’ around, but that poor boy is dead, and our sweet girl here saw it all!”

Shaking my head, I corrected her. “I didn’t see what happened. I only saw after it happened.”

“Ooooh,” Cora groaned, wringing her aging hands together. “How awful for ya, honey. How’s Fab? She okay, too?”

“We’re both fine, ladies. I swear. It was awful, and sad because he was so young, but we’ll be okay.”

Della shook her pin-curled head and clucked her tongue. “That poor child. Was always in some kind of trouble. Not surprised he ended up the way he did. I don’t know how his mother put up with it for so long.”

Alarm bells went off in my head, but I had to remember not to show too much interest or I’d look like a nosy Nellie. “You knew Ferris Leopold?”

Latrice nodded, pushing her fashionably cute leopard-print glasses up her nose. “Only for a little while. They lived here in Buttermilk Bay, but it’s been a long time since they moved away. After her husband died, I think.”

His mother. So Ferris did have relatives? How odd that he hadn’t asked me to make contact with them. In fact, that was usually the first thing a ghost wanted me to do.

“And you knew his mother?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

Three pairs of eyes lit up. “We did. She used to quilt with us back in the day,” Cora chirped. “Alice. That was her name. Alice Leopold. Such a nice gal, but that boy of hers was somethin’ else.”

“Meaning?” I asked, feigning vague interest when really the plan was to hang on to every word they said.

Cora’s face screwed up. “Meaning he was always in trouble. In school, out of school, all the time. Graffiti, shoplifting, prank phone calls, skipping school. You name it, he did it.”

Finding out his mother was still with us was surprising. The rest of it? Not a surprise at all. Ferris himself admitted he was a criminal.

“Did he have any siblings? Do you know where his mother is now?”

Della wrinkled her nose. “No siblings, least not when she left Buttermilk Bay. Lost track of her long ago. Moved to Salem, I think. I sure hope she’s okay.” She paused for a moment and then she looked at her cohorts. “Girls, we should hunt poor Alice down and pay our respects, don’t you think? She’ll need support. She’s all alone now.”

Latrice bobbed her head with enthusiasm, leaning in on her wooden cane. “Ohhh, good idea, Dell! I’ll make her my famous Chicken Divan casserole. We’ll road trip. Whaddya say?”

As they were all conspiring to head to Salem, a million questions ran through my mind. “Ladies? Do you have any idea who’d want to kill Ferris? It’s kind of been bugging me since yesterday. I think I’m a little invested since…well, you know… I admit to looking him up on Facebook, and he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d have enemies, but I don’t know anything about him.”

Cora sniffed, shoving her hands inside her mom-jeans. “I’m sure plenty a people wanted to metaphorically kill that boy. He was a troublemaker from the word go. Poor Alice was always so worried about him. But I don’t personally know anyone who wanted him snuffed out.”

Della rolled her twinkling brown eyes at Cora. “Don’t talk out of your butt, Cora Niven. That boy never did anything serious. He was a petty thief. Skipped school all the time, but he didn’t deserve to end up takin’ a dirt nap for it.” Her expression went grave. “That’s the truth, Evanora. He wasn’t a bad boy. He just wasn’t a good one. Alice was always worried he wouldn’t amount to anything, that’s all. I’m sure he went on to become a fine young man.”

Hah. If only. Not that Ferris was a bad guy. He truly didn’t seem to be, but his mother had a right to her fears.

This was a dead end unless they found Alice before I did. “Well, I’m sure sorry he’s dead. If you find his mother, would one of you girls let me know? I’d like to pay my respects, too.”

“Course we will, Evanora,” Della assured me with a sympathetic smile.

I smiled back at them. “Thanks, girls. Now, you’ll have to excuse me, but I have to run to my next appointment.”

“Right into the arms of that fine-lookin’ fella waitin’ on you out there?” Latrice teased with a wink, her gaze directed out the window of the café to the sidewalk, where Cary leaned up against the door of my truck, his ankles crossed.

I pressed a kiss to her weathered cheek. “Aren’t you the comedienne. You takin’ that show on the road?”

She swatted my arm, then cupped my cheek. “You be well, Snooks. We need ya ’round these parts. No more heart attacks, okay?”

I gave her my warmest, most reassuring smile. “I’ll sure try, Miss Latrice. You ladies have a great day.”

I zipped through the tables full of patrons and out the door before they could stop me, heading straight toward Cary.

His welcoming grin made my heart thump unusually hard in my chest. “You made it out alive, I see.” He cupped his hands together, raising his arms to the sky in triumph.

Laughing, I nodded, fighting the urge to twirl my hair around my finger. “They’re harmless, if not busybodies. I’ve known them all my life. They just wanted to check on me after…yesterday,” I whispered the word because all of a sudden, I saw a vision in my head of Ferris, lying on the ground, dead, and it hit me quite suddenly.

I guess, because I could still talk to him, the idea he was dead and never coming back hadn’t fully sunk in, but it was sure doing that right now in an overwhelming tidal wave of sadness.

Cary’s arms dropped and his face, that gorgeous face, went stoic. “About that. Are you okay? I don’t know about you, but I had a rough time sleeping last night. Felt bad for the poor guy.”

I remembered the scream he’d let out when he’d seen poor Ferris lying on the ground under that pool.

“Me, too,” I agreed solemnly, even if my loss of sleep was for a different reason than his. “But I’m okay. A little freaked out because it’s not like Buttermilk Bay sees many murders, but I’m okay.”

“Did you know him?”

Shaking my head, I avoided Cary’s eyes. “I didn’t. I think he came from Salem.”

Cary nodded, his hard jaw tight. “I overheard the police say he was some kind of petty thief. Still don’t think he deserved to die like that.”

On that, I had to agree. “Did they say anything else? They didn’t seem too interested in asking me much other than the standard questions. It was like they didn’t want to dig too deep.”

“Right? That’s the impression I got, too. They didn’t seem really invested, which surprised me.”

That sadness that had crept up on me burrowed deeper. “Yeah,” I whispered. “I hope he gets justice.”

“Me, too.” He pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and checked the time. “Listen, I’ve got to go check on the guys, but would you be interested in dinner sometime?”

The moment I was about to oblige—because duh, what red-blooded heterosexual woman who hadn’t had a date since flip phones were popular wouldn’t want to have dinner with Cary Mann?—I was interrupted by screaming from across the street.

“You get back here, you hooligan! Thief! Thieeef! Stop him!” someone shrieked, seconds before the sound of sharp bangs rang through the air and a dark figure came barreling down the street—headed straight for me.

I looked across the road, where the shouting had come from, to see Mrs. Benedetto, who owned Gifts of Thrift, waving something in the air.

Then I remember briefly thinking, holy crow, were those bangs gunshots?

After that, I only remember thinking, hitting the pavement with such force is really gonna hurt tomorrow.

Chapter Ten

I lie there dazed, blinking, noting the sky was almost azure blue today and Cary Mann was really heavy. Not unpleasantly so, mind you. His weight was very evenly dispersed amongst all his muscley-muscles.

However, he was so heavy with muscle, I couldn’t breathe.

Not breathing because Cary Mann is lying across your body isn’t a horrible thing. But the flashbacks of when I had my heart attack and couldn’t breathe is sort of a horrible thing.

I began to push at his broad shoulders, gasping for breath. It was all in my mind, of course. I knew rationally I was having an anxiety attack. I’d had a few since the surgery. But that didn’t stop me from struggling to get out from beneath his broad chest.

My own chest heaved as I pushed at him, and he rolled to his side before using those abs of steel of his to sit up like he was still twenty.

I, on the other hand, continued to gasp for breath and roll around on the sidewalk like I was a biscuit freshly oozing from a popped can of dough. Unlike Cary, in my whole life, I can’t even remember if I’d ever even had any abs.

Cary helped me to a sitting position, where I managed to take several deep breaths.

“Evan? Are you okay? Should I call an ambulance,” he asked, his handsome face riddled with anxiety as he rested a big hand on my shoulder. The worried tone in his voice made me feel bad. “I didn’t mean to knock you down so hard, but when I saw that guy running down the sidewalk with a gun, shooting at everything in his path, all I could think was I needed to get you out of the way.”

A gun? I thought Mrs. Benedetto had the gun? Either way, immediately I knew this had something to do with that stinkin’ spoon. I felt it in my gut.

Who robs a thrift store?

Blowing out a shaky breath, I nodded at him, knowing my cheeks were turning red as people gathered around us. “I’m fine, Cary. Thanks for looking out for me.”

“Evan? Oh my stars, Evan! Are you all right?” I heard Fab’s silky voice go shrill in my ears as she pushed her way through the gathering crowd. “Everyone move the heck out of the way, you bunch of lookie-loos!” she demanded. “The woman just had heart surgery and you’re all gawking like she has two heads and sprouted a tail instead of getting help! Someone call 9-1-1!”

“No, Fab!” I shouted, tugging at the edge of her crisp skirt. “No. Don’t call 9-1-1. Please. I’m okay. I just had the wind knocked out of me.”

She knelt down next to Cary and brushed my hair from my face, tilting my chin up to thoroughly examine me. Then she gave Cary a scathing look. “You said you wanted to ask her out, not commit felony assault!”

Rolling my eyes, I accepted Cary’s hand as he helped me up, my knees making the sound of crackling wood on a campfire while my heart thrummed an excited beat.

In the midst of all the chaos, I admit, I briefly thought about the fact that he’d gone to ask Fab where I was so he could ask me out…and then I shook it off.

As she plucked at me, fussing over my heart, I shooed her hands away. “Cut it out, Fab. I’m fine. Cary saved me from some guy who came running at me like a bull. He said he had a gun.”

Fab gasped, wrapping her arm around me. “What? I was just having lunch at Tootie’s when I saw all the commotion and heard the yelling. That pow-pow was gunshots? Holy mackerel!”

As I prepared to explain, the sound of sirens swirled through the air, and I knew I needed to get to the other side of the street in order to eavesdrop on any conversations the police had with bystanders in front of the thrift shop.

I hadn’t seen much, but I bet the people around us had.

Forgetting Cary, I grabbed Fab’s hand and pulled her across the road to where Mrs. Benedetto stood, surrounded by some of Buttermilk Bay’s shop owners, a gun hanging limply from her hand.

My eyes weren’t deceiving me. She had shot a gun.

Zoinks.

She leaned against the wall of the brick building where her thrift shop was housed. Her wispy dyed hair, usually in a neat bun, was in disarray, and she looked as if she’d seen a ghost—no pun intended.

I rushed to her side, hoping to get to her before the police did because my gut told me this had something to do with that spoon.

“Mrs. Benedetto? Are you okay?” I asked, pushing my way through the shop owners to reach for the hand without the gun.

“I can’t believe I just did that!” she cried, distress showing in the lines on her face as she looked down at her trembling hand. “I shot at someone, Evan. Shot a gun!”

I pulled the napkins from my hoodie pocket and asked, “Can I have the gun, Mrs. Benedetto?” She was so distraught, I didn’t want to worry she’d start waving that thing around.

“Oh!” she cried out again, holding it out as if it had burned her. “Here! Take it!”

I didn’t have a lot of experience with guns, I only knew I wanted to use the utmost care handling it. Encouraging her to place the gun on the napkins, I took it, and thankfully Mr. Rivera, a veteran of the Army, with iron-gray hair and a hard look often mistaken for a scowl yet was anything but, took it from me.

“Give it here, Evan. I’ll keep it safe while we wait for the police.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, I gripped Mrs. Benedetto’s hand. “What happened, Mrs. B? Did you see who were you shooting at?”

Her answer was shaky. “I don’t know, Evanora! I just saw them grab something from behind the register and take off. Oooo, I got so mad! I’m tired of people stealing from me. It’s become quite a problem these days. That’s why I let Rosemary talk me into buying that horrible thing. To protect the store.”

I guess I was wrong. It would seem lots of people wanted to rob a thrift store.

I gave Mrs. B a well-earned hug, wrapping my arms around her abundant frame and rubbing my palm over her back, inhaling the scent of her Shalimar as I drew her close.

“So someone tried to steal something from you and you shot at him?”

She shuddered in my arms. “He waved his gun at me first and told me to stay put!” She shook her head as tears began to fall down her rounded cheeks. “But I suppose I’ve had enough clear up to my durn eyeballs because…” She inhaled a sharp breath on a gasp of air. “I just reacted and pulled the gun from the cash register and did some of my own threatening. When…when he grabbed whatever it was he took, and began to run, I ran after him and started shooting. I mean, I don’t even know what he was stealing, for cripes sake!”

I commiserated with her by setting her from me and giving her a smile of sympathy. “Are you sure it was a he? A man?”

To be honest, when I saw the figure hauling butt toward me on the sidewalk, I didn’t assign gender. Though, I do remember they were pretty tall. Of course, everyone’s tall to my 5’4” stature.

Her answer was shaky. “You know, Evan, now that I think about it, it was like they were trying to disguise their voice. You know, like when kids pretend to be adults? I don’t know if it was a man or a woman. I don’t know!” she cried, her answers increasingly anxious. “I just don’t know!”

“Sh-sh. It’s okay, Mrs. B. I’m so sorry this happened. Just breathe and let’s wait for the police.”

It was then she looked at me as if suddenly seeing me. “Evanora, you’re bleeding, honey!” She reached out to touch my cheek. “Oh, honey, let me get you something for that. Or wait for Rosemary. She’s a healthcare aide. She can fix you right up.”

The woman had just chased a thief down with a gun after being robbed and she wanted to make my boo-boos all better? I grabbed her hand. “I’m okay, Mrs. B. It doesn’t hurt. How about we worry about you for now? The police are going to be here any second and you’ll need to talk to them.”

Her chubby face went stricken. “Do you think I’ll get into trouble? I was only defending myself and my store!”

I didn’t know what to say. I mean, I’d sure hope she wasn’t in trouble, but I don’t know Massachusetts laws. These days, criminals sued the people they were robbing. So I decided to divert the conversation.

“Has this happened before, Mrs. B? Is theft a common occurrence at the store?”

So little happened in Buttermilk Bay, I found myself shocked. We’d had a murder and a robbery in two days.

Mrs. B hung her head in shame. “It’s been happening more frequently. I don’t know why. It’s a thrift store, for blessed sake.”

Fab reached around me and took her other hand. “Don’t be silly! Of course you were defending your livelihood. You have every right to take matters into your own hands!”

“Ooooh, dear,” Mrs. B moaned, biting her lower lip. “Will you stay with me, Evanora? Stay until Rosemary gets here?”

Giving her another hug, I nodded. “You bet, Mrs. B. Can I get you anything? Something to drink? A cool cloth for your face?”

But she didn’t have time to answer. By then, I saw Rosemary, rushing to her mother’s side, her round face red and her hair mussed. She pushed her way past the crowd, her orthopedic shoes clomping against the sidewalk.

“Mom! Are you all right?” Rosemary cried, and Bernadette crumbled into her arms.

Then police swept in and instructed both of them to go with them back inside the store. The other officers cordoned off the area by the thrift store and separated people who’d witnessed the crime into small groups.

Both Cary and I were shown to the outside corner of the store and directed to stay put. So much for getting the skinny from the police. We stood quietly, both clearly absorbing what had just happened.

Leaning against the brick façade, the adrenaline rush I’d experienced moments ago began fading fast.

I wobbled a little, but Cary gripped my shoulder to steady me. “You all right?”

I was now…

I nodded, watching the leaves scurry down the street along the curb. “You?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “A little sore, but no worse than a grueling workout.”

“You work out?” I don’t know why I asked that as if I was positively gobsmacked. Of course he worked out. You didn’t get abs that are kryptonite to women everywhere if you sat around and ate mashed potatoes and Oreo cookies.

I’m not much good at small talk or flirting, and it was showing.

“I do,” he confirmed. “It’s my stress reliever.”

“Mine’s French fries.” Just ask my butt.

He grinned, his teeth white and almost perfect but for one slightly crooked bicuspid. “I like those, too.”

“With ketchup or ranch?”

“Both.”

I wrinkled my nose. “So you’re a waffler?”

“I like to keep my options open. You?”

“Ketchup all the way.”

“No variations? Ever?”

“Nope. I’m a one-condiment kind of gal.”

He gave me a comically suspicious look. “Are we still talking fries here?”

I chuckled, and then I looked down at my hands, sobering with a shiver that touched the very marrow of my bones. “He had a gun.”

Taking my hand in his, Cary squeezed my fingers tight before letting go. “Whoever it was, they sure did. I’m sorry I knocked you down.”

Now I smiled at him, his face dappled in the sunlight, revealing the crow’s feet around his eyes. “I’m good.”

“Your chest?”

I frowned. “What about it?”

“I meant your scar. Did I hurt you?”

I flapped a hand at him, dismissing the notion. “Nah. It’s fine.” Pausing, I looked around. “What do you think we should do? Do you think the police will want to talk to us?”

“They did say to wait here, so I hope so. We might not have seen much, but we did see the guy hightailing it down the street. At least we can tell them that much, in case Mrs. Benedetto needs backup.”

His words in defense of Mrs. Benedetto made me smile again, and indeed, seconds later, a tall, lanky uniformed officer from Buttermilk Bay PD showed up by the name of Officer Baxter.

He asked us the usual questions, but we had so little to offer in the way of description, I think he decided we hadn’t given him much more than anyone else.

As he thanked us for our help, I dared a question, making my best attempt at keeping it casual. “Any idea what the robber was after?”

He pushed the brim of his hat upward and scratched at his head, revealing shortly cropped dark hair. “You know, it was the weirdest thing.”

I held my breath.

“How’s that?” Cary asked with a tilt of his head.

“Spoons, sir. According to Mrs. Benedetto. After a quick inventory, she discovered they stole a bag of spoons.”

Ba-dump-bump.

Chapter Eleven

Fab and I sat at my dining room table, glasses of wine in hand as we swirled pasta on our forks from Mama Fab.

When Fab told her about our day, she’d instantly begun cooking. It was how she showed her concern and her love, and no one appreciated not having to cook more than me.

I cooked for Cal and myself all the time because I didn’t want him to grow up on frozen foods and preservatives, but it wasn’t where my creativity flowed. Now that he was gone it was easier to open a can of soup or grab a takeout salad and a burger.

“Mmmm. Tell your mother she’s the best and if I had a husband, I’d leave him for her.” No one made Bolognese like Mama.

Fab snorted mid-gulp of wine. “I’ll pass it along. How’s your war wound?”

I let my fingers lightly glide over the scratch on my face from when I’d hit the ground. “It’s fine. Some antibiotic cream and one of my special poultices and all will be well. I’ve been through much worse.”

She tipped her glass at me. “I’ll drink to that.”

As I ate, I reflected on the surprised expression Cary made when Officer Baxter told us the thief had stolen spoons, but I kept my mouth shut for the time being.

It was time for me to make an anonymous phone call to the police. Now they knew about the spoons. I couldn’t put it off any longer. I hoped Ferris would agree. Someone else was going to get hurt if I didn’t speak up.

For the moment, I decided to keep this choice to myself. I’d tell Ferris later, but right now, I didn’t want Fab to know anything that might riled her up about someone else taking credit for my sleuthing.

Plus, I needed to get a burner phone to make the call so it couldn’t be traced back to me.

Lost in thought, I caught my friend eyeing me with a serious Fab gaze. “So…”

“So?” I knew what she was going to ask next, but I liked making her do it.

She rolled her eyes at me and clucked her tongue. “Soooo, did Cary ask you out after he saved you from that slug Vaughn?”

I set my fork down and wiped my mouth. “He didn’t save me. I saved me. He just reinforced what I’d already done and helped me clean up the crime scene. As to Cary asking me out? Sort of. We didn’t pin it down to a specific day, just the mention of a meal sometime.”

Fab tapped the rim of her wine tumbler. “Then he was just playing it cool, because let me tell you, sister, he was all kinds of curious about where you were today.”

I fought a stupid grin and the warming of my insides. “That’s nice.”

“Nice?” she sputtered with a roll of her neck. “Excuse me, miss, but aren’t we Casual Cathy? He’s the best-looking man in this town aside from Jorge, and you’re behaving as though men like that can be plucked off trees.”

Shrugging, I wiped my mouth. I’d had some time to think about how physically attracted I was to Cary, and I needed to figure out if it was because I’d been manless for quite some time or because we had real chemistry.

Slow and steady was my motto from here on out with Mr. Silver Fox. “It’s just dinner and we didn’t even have time to set a day. He had to go and so did I. Plus, I have a murder to solve. So how about we focus on that?”

“Could we?” Ferris whined, appearing out of thin air to plant himself in a chair across from me at my round dining room table.

I made a face at him, throwing my napkin on the hard surface. “I can see why you were always in trouble, buddy. You clearly don’t know how to follow the rules.”

He let his head fall back on his shoulders with a moan. “If I waited on you to call me, I’d be waiting for eternity. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, little lady.”

Fab glanced in the direction I was looking, her eyes wide. “He’s here?”

“Yep. Impatient as always.”

“You say impatient, I say ambitious. I need to know who killed me and I need to know…” He drifted off. “I just need to know who killed me. I just want to rest in peace. Is that too much to ask?”

Fab scooped up our plates and took them to the farmhouse sink I’d just had installed. “Do you need some privacy?”

Shaking my head, I shifted in my chair, my hip beginning to burn from my earlier mishap with the pavement. “No. I need someone to teach my ghost some manners.” Looking at Ferris, his transparent face fallen, I sighed. “If there was something to tell you, don’t you think I would share? I’m sure you saw and heard what I saw and heard. Someone stole the spoons, but no one has any idea the worth of this stupid kitchen utensil. Besides that, what could you possibly do with the money when you’re dead?”

He completely ignored my question. “Well, now, whoever stole it’s gonna hit paydirt thanks to you, Evanora!”

I gawked at him. His level of frustration over money he couldn’t spend astounded me. Also, the help I was giving him was cheap labor—as in free.

I hopped up from my chair, driving my hands into the pockets of my sweats, and shook my head. “You know, Ferris, you make it sound like I handed this guy the spoons and said go buy a private jet. I didn’t know until this morning they were back at the thrift store. But I also told you, we’d have to work around my schedule, and I had an appointment with someone today that will help keep me eating. You knew that coming in.”

“But the question really is, did you have to play kissy-face with that guy made out of granite? It was time wasted. Time you could have used to get your grubby mitts on that spoon before the thief did,” he spat.

I narrowed my eyes at him as he floated upward out of arm’s reach. The nerve. “Excuse me? I can waste my time however I’d like, buddy! And again, I ask, what the blazes are you going to do with the spoon anyway? You’re dead!”

“Exactly. I’m dead. Because of the spoon! Are you dense? Do ya have a brain or are you just pretty? How many times do I have to tell you, find the person who stole the spoon, find my killer. Get it?” he sniped at me.

No. It was about more than just finding the killer. Ferris wanted the spoon—to what end, I didn’t know.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I returned his defiant look. “Wow, are you ever a real—”

“Blood pressure!” Fab called out a reminder.

Blood pressure, schmood pressure. But I inhaled a deep breath and took it down a notch, all the while in disbelief that Ferris had the nerve to be so petulant. “Let me tell you a little something, pal. I can see why you turned to a life of crime.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, can you now? Why’s that, Dr. Dark?”

Cocking my eyebrow, I gave him a disapproving look. “Because you’ve always been a troublemaker, Ferris.”

He lifted his chin and it felt like a defiant gesture. Long gone was Mr. Affable. “Oh yeah? Who told you that?”

Sitting back down, I gulped my wine while I listened to Fab in the kitchen, making coffee. “Some of the local ladies. In fact, they used to quilt with your mom. Her name is Alice, right?”

Now he looked positively uncomfortable as he fidgeted in his chair, and I didn’t understand why. Unless it had something to do with the fact that he’d left this world on bad terms with Alice—or worse, she wasn’t with us anymore.

If she wasn’t still with us, I’d like to know so I could pass that on to the ladies before they jumped in their cars, dumplings and pies in hand.

Reaching across the table’s surface, I tapped it with a fingernail. I decided to redirect this conversation before we strayed further off course. “Ferris, where’s your mother?”

“Leave my mother out of this,” he demanded quite abruptly.

My eyes narrowed again and my pulse jumped. I was onto something. “Are you on bad terms with her? Is she even still alive?”

“Why does that matter?”

I gave him an are-you-kidding-me look. “It matters because three very nice seniors want to hunt her down so they can bring her food and sympathy for your passing. She’s your mother, Ferris! Don’t you want her to know what’s happened so she can mourn you?”

Now for sure he was defiant. His eyes became fiery as he floated toward the ceiling before he turned his back to me. “She won’t care one way or the other, believe me. And those ladies, whoever they are, probably won’t be able to find her. It’s not like she has a Facebook page or something.”

I was flabbergasted as I pushed myself out of my chair and shook my finger at him. “Ferris! Of course she’ll care. She’s your mother, and a good one from what the girls said. Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have a mother? No matter what’s passed between you, if I’m hearing about her right, she’ll care! It’s cruel to let her suffer.”

Don’t get me wrong, my dads had been an awesome pair. No girl could have ever been so loved and adored by two people, but sometimes—only sometimes—I’d wished my mother was alive just so I could meet her and put a voice to all the pictures my dad had of her.

Ferris whipped around so fast, the transparency of his body made my head spin. “Suffer? Hah! You have no idea. Listen, I said leave my mother out of this! I caused her more grief than any one person deserved when I was alive. I’m telling you, let it be, Evanora!” he shouted, making my small mobile home rattle and creak, the dishes in the sink clacking together.

“Okay!” Fab yelped sharply, lobbing the kitchen towel onto the dining room table as she made a beeline for me. Looking toward the oversized moss green chair, she waved a beautifully polished finger in the air. “There’ll be none of that nonsense! Not while I’m around, mister. It’s kooky enough to find out ghosts really exist, but you won’t be rattling glassware when I’m on the scene! Understood?”

I fought a giggle, easing some of my tension, and pointed in the other direction. “Wrong way, Feldman,” I teased her.

Fab stomped her foot in frustration and whipped around. “Argh! You ghosts are gonna be the death of me. I don’t care where you are up there, all floating around smug-like because you have the advantage! You’d better knock it off with the temper tantrums!”

Ferris’s face, gaunt and pale, shimmered with ire. “Forget it. Just forget all of it. Forget the spoon. Forget who killed me. The police were right. It doesn’t matter anyway. Apologize to Fab for my outburst, would ya? See you around, Evan,” he said with so much defeat in his voice, my heart slapped in my chest.

The second he was gone, guilt washed over me in waves and my heart clenched.

Crap.

“Wait, Ferris!” I called out, but he was gone, leaving Fab and I looking at each other with blank stares in the middle of my suddenly cold mobile home.

I didn’t even have the chance to tell him I was going to make an anonymous call to the police about the spoon.

“Did I scare him off?” Fab finally asked with a wince.

I plopped down on the couch where Rizzo and Kenickie lounged and let out a forlorn sigh. “I don’t think it’s you, Fab. I think something about his mother triggered him. Other than the fact that they obviously weren’t on good terms, I can’t understand why he won’t tell me if she’s even alive.”

Running a hand through my hair, I grit my teeth. “He’s hiding something, Fab. I know it.”

“And your blood pressure’s going to know it, too. Please chill out. I know you hate to hear that, but easy on the intense. It scares me.”

But I felt kind of awful. I didn’t want Ferris to go away permanently. I just wanted him to tell me the whole story—because there was more. Yes, there was.

“I’m feeling like a real jerk right now, Fab. What if he doesn’t come back? What if I’m an idiot for caring? Another easy mark?”

Grabbing my laptop from the coffee table, I felt the couch sink down next to me as Fab kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs under her.

She rubbed my arm for comfort. “I’m sorry, honey. How can I help?”

“I didn’t find anything much on Ferris on social media, but maybe I didn’t do a deep enough dive? I’m going to look up his mother and see what I can find out.”

Pulling her phone from her pocket, she settled Carmine in her lap and nodded. “Ever faithful Watson, at your service,” she said with a grin.

There was never a time I couldn’t count on Fab. For the moment, she helped stave off the guilt I felt not only about Ferris’s departure, but about the fact that I planned to place an anonymous call to the police and let them handle it—and yes, quite possibly take the credit for solving Ferris’s murder.

That spoon had turned into a lethal weapon. I couldn’t in good conscience keep that information to myself.

Chapter Twelve

An hour later, our sighs mingled. “Nothing?” I asked.

“If Alice Leopold’s picture was in the dictionary, it would be under the word nothing, and I do mean not a single, solitary thing. There’s zero on Ferris’s page about her either. Zero anywhere. She might as well be a ghost, too. In fact, his death didn’t even make a very big impression on the Buttermilk Bay Gazette. He got the smallest mention I’ve ever seen. I think there was a bigger article when Oris Bartolucci’s dog Bronwyn died than there is for an actual murder victim.”

Scoffing, I said, “It wouldn’t surprise me if Ernie Macklemore had something to do with that.”

Fab turned to look at me, her coal eyes narrowed. “You think he wants this murder kept quiet so he got Judith to keep it on the down-low?”

Judith was the managing editor at the Buttermilk Bay Gazette and, truth in journalism be darned, if her husband Ernie, our chief of police, wanted something kept quiet so he didn’t have to get off his duff and deal with a public panic and hysteria, he’d make sure she didn’t advertise it.

Small towns, right?

“Well, she is the head editor at the Gazette, and you know how fond Ernie is of keeping the public calm at all costs, even if it means there’s a killer running around on the loose. I’d buy into the idea he asked her to downplay Ferris’s death. He wasn’t exactly an esteemed member of society.”

Fab stroked Carmine’s back and pursed her lips. “Ernie’s still the same old Ernie, isn’t he? Lazy as the day is long. And stupid. I mean, if we have a killer running around, don’t you think he’d want to alert the public?”

We’d gone to school with both Ernie and Judith—two peas in a pod, they were. And Judith revered her husband above all else, and if he said jump, she asked how high.

Which made us both want to gak.

I closed the lid of my laptop in defeat. “You’d think so, but he can’t keep it quiet forever. I mean, it’s not like this isn’t news and you know what our fine town is like. The murder’s already spread like wildfire, so I don’t know who he thinks he’s keeping it from anyway. Or maybe…”

“Maybe?” Fab prompted.

“Maybe Buttermilk Bay’s finest is keeping this quiet for some bigger reason?”

Fab yawned and stretched. “Like?”

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe it’s something they don’t want the public at large to know? Human trafficking? Drugs? Cartel? Gun smuggling? I guess it could be anything.”

Now that Ferris had run off, I had no way to poke at him to find out. He had tells, for sure. Everyone does. Weak spots where if I niggled long enough, he’d spill. I just couldn’t pinpoint them yet.

Fab rose and twisted at the waist from side to side. “Right. Because that happens in Buttermilk Bay all the time, Murder She Wrote.”

I rose, too, shaking out my cramped legs, my hip starting to really ache. “I’m just saying, maybe Ernie knows something he doesn’t want anyone else to know. That’s all.”

Fab pulled me into her arms, giving me a quick hug. “Maybe that’s true—or maybe Ernie’s a lazy SOB who doesn’t want to deal with a hundred seniors from Wildflower by the Sea, beating down his door and demanding he catch Ferris’s killer? That sounds way more plausible.”

I was just about to tell her she was probably right when someone rang my doorbell, making us both chuckle. “Maybe that’s Willajean, spearheading the campaign to get Ernie off his butt?” she joked as she stepped back into her shoes.

Willajean Simmons is one of my all-time favorite seniors in the park. She’s a saucy minx of a seventy-five-year-old who dresses in cute mini-skirts (because man, her gams are in great shape) and has Botox injected on a regular basis, leaving her skin mostly smooth with the exception of a minimal wrinkle here and there—wrinkles she lovingly calls her proof-of-a-life-well-lived lines.

She dyes her hair the color of flames and she’s all the rage with the senior men—and some not-so-senior men, to boot.

Even the women who were jealous of her, she’d managed to woo with her Southern charm by y’all-ing and blessing their hearts to death. No one could resist Willajean.

She’s from Georgia, Willajean is—moved here to Buttermilk Bay after her husband’s company transferred him to Salem when she was in her twenties. She hated the cold and always swore when her husband, Gayle, was gone, she’d move back to her hometown of Savannah. But because she was so amazing, she’d made too many friends to leave behind. Not to mention, her daughters lived in Salem.

Anyway, I answered the door to find it was indeed Willajean, in a pair of yoga pants and a thick hot pink sweater. She rubbed her arms at the chill. “Swear, I’m never gonna get used to this cold—not as long as I live!” she said on a dramatic shiver.

I waved her inside. “Miss Willajean Simmons, what brings you out on this frigid night?” I teased.

She flapped her hand at me, her nails painted orange and black with autumn leaves on them in honor of fall. “You stop makin’ fun of the old lady, y’all hear? My bones are old, even if my outside isn’t,” she teased with a curtsy, her Southern accent soothing to my ears.

Fab gave her a hug on her way out the door. “I have to go, Miss Willajean. Y’all be good now, ya hear?” She laughed when Willajean wrinkled her nose at Fab’s poor accent. She blew me a kiss. “Call me if you need me. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. Love you!”

As Fab ran down the steps, Willajean gave me a critical once-over, her face worried. “I heard what happened to y’all, sugar. I’d’a been here yesterday, but I was in Salem with my girls—didn’t get back till just now. We all heard what happened, but the gang was too slow for me to wait on ’em to come check on ya.”

“The gang” being Fergus McGee, Chicky Whisterbaum, Pack O’Reilly, and Miss Willajean. I lovingly called them the Mobile Homies. They were thick as thieves and as protective of me as any grandparents.

I grinned at her. “I wondered where all the tea and sympathy got to.”

She grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight, her slender fingers freezing cold. “Tell me you’re all right, darlin’. Tell me you weren’t hurt. I swear, those men know how to use a bloomin’ phone! They coulda called me or texted. I’d have never forgiven myself if you were hurt and I wasn’t here for y’all.”

I squeezed her hand back. “You’re sweet, Willajean, but we’re okay. A little shook up, but okay. You want a cup of coffee to warm you up and I’ll tell you all about it?”

Rizzo and Kenickie had hopped off the couch to greet her. They loved Willajean and her magic pocket full of treats.

She stuck her hand in her bulky sweater pocket, pulling out their favorite dried sausage treats, which they snarfed up in half a second flat, snorting and shaking their chubby bottoms in gratitude.

There was another ring of my doorbell. I gave Willajean a look of apology and scooted past her to pop the door open again while she cuddled Carmine and gave him a grape.

“Well, would ya look what the cat dragged in?” Willajean crowed when she saw one of her cohorts at the door, holding a tin. “Pack O’Reilly, you old fart! Why didn’t you call me when you heard my girl here was a witness to a murder?”

He blustered, his puffy face red from the chilly autumn wind. “You quiet yourself over there, you saucy minx. We were all fishin’ when it happened. Been up at the cabin where we can’t get a dang signal or we’d have been right here for our girl.” Pack shoved the tin into my hand, one of those old ones people used to use for butter cookies and later turned them into button holders.

To be so loved and welcomed in my father’s stead was awesome. Not having any grandparents of my own, I treasured my friendships with the Homies.

I took the tin from him and smiled, planting a kiss on his leathery cheek. “Did you make me blondies?”

Pack smiled, his weathered face coy. “Your favorite.” He pinched my cheek between his index finger and thumb with a wink of his blue eye.

I’m not much for sweets (I know, I know!), but I’m a sucker for a good brownie. Blondies were my favorite. Pack’s were always dry as the Mohave—because he never failed to forget them in the oven—but they were made with love and nothing tasted better.

Hitching my thumb over my shoulder at Willajean, I said, “I’m making coffee for Willajean. You want some too, Pack?”

“I want coffee,” a gruff voice called out from my tiny front porch. Fergus poked his silver head inside as I was closing the door, his hair, long and scraggly on the sides and bald on top, blowing in the wind. “It’s colder than a witch’s—”

“Don’t you say it or I’ll wash your mouth out with soap, McGee!” Willajean threatened, but there was a twinkle in her hazel eyes.

He ignored Willajean’s threat the way he always did, gripping me by my arms with his beefy hands. “Young lady, are you all right?” he asked, a frown making deep wrinkles in his forehead.

“Move out of the way, old man!” Chicky Whisterbaum, the last of the gang, pushed Fergus out of his way and stormed inside like I owed him money, waving his finger. “Listen here, Tootsie, if that thug laid a hand on one pretty hair on your head, I’ll shoot his bazingas off!”

I loved the way his moustache moved when he spoke. The bushy brush of hair had a will of its own. It couldn’t be tamed, and neither could Chicky.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and gave him a tight squeeze, before leaning back and brushing at his crisp white T-shirt beneath his flannel jacket. “My hero,” I cooed, and he swatted me away.

But not before he ran an affectionate finger down the tip of my nose, leaving the scent of Old Spice in its wake. “You cut that out.”

Giggling, I welcomed them inside, pointing to the couch and the loveseat. “Have a seat and I’ll tell you all about it, guys.”

We’d spent a lot of time together, here in my living room. When I’d first moved into my father’s double wide, and they’d found out Knightly Allen was my dad, they’d welcomed me with open arms—because there wasn’t a soul I could think of who didn’t love my dad.

They’d given me a view into the world he’d created here on the other side of town from the house I grew up in—a world I knew nothing about—and I was grateful.

Of course, they all thought he was an insurance salesman, too, and I never told them otherwise. So as I’d gotten to know them over these last couple of years, shared meals, had barbecues, played rousing games of gin rummy and Jenga. I’d been able to feel a piece of my father I never knew existed.

And that had made their friendships that much more valuable to me.

As they all piled onto the couch and chair with the dogs, Fergus flipped on the television—likely to watch the ten o’ clock news—and Chicky and Pack settled the dogs onto their laps. Willajean pulled a throw blanket off the back of the chair and sat Carmine on top of it. I smiled, my heart warm.

These people were my family, too, and even though they fret over me unnecessarily, I didn’t hate it.

That was my last thought as I went into the kitchen to make some more coffee—and just before I heard a scream so loud, it pierced my eardrums and chilled me to the bone.

Because I knew that scream of terror. I knew it well.

It was the one I’d heard when we were kids and we’d snuck into the movie theater to see Halloween. Or the one when we’d gone on the haunted hayride and Jebby Green jumped out of a cornfield dressed as Jason from Friday the 13th and gave us both the scare of a lifetime.

That was Fab’s scream—and she was terrified.

Chapter Thirteen

“That was Fab!” I yelled, making a beeline for the door. I threw it open and flew down the steps, in my socks and all, as fast as my cramped legs and hot mess of a hip would carry me.

Making a left, I headed straight to other side of my house, where Fab usually parked in front of my small patch of green grass by the curb.

“Fab?” I yelled into the wind. Leaves hit my face with a wet slap and a sprinkle of rain misted me. The breeze from the ocean can be quite strong. I was shocked that our mobile homes stayed erect most times, the wind was so fierce.

I saw her standing there, at the hood of her car, and even from where I stood, I could see her visibly shaking and looking down at the pavement, her usually tidy hair, flying in the wind.

“Fab!” I called out again as I ran toward her, my socks little protection for my cold feet. I stopped dead when I saw what she was looking at.

Gulping, I grabbed her icy fingers. “Fab, what happened? Talk to me.”

She shook her head, appearing a bit dazed. “I don’t know, Ev. I swear, I don’t know! I was in my car, answering a text message, and all of a sudden I felt someone slam into my car—hard. With such force it made my car rock. He came out of nowhere. I swear, he did! My car wasn’t even moving!”

I looked at the hood of her sweet, sweet ride—the one she’d bought as a celebratory gift to herself when she’d outsold every real estate agent in Massachusetts last year. A 2021 Mustang with all the trimmings and the color of an orange push-up pop.

Poor Gigi, the name we’d given her car, was gonna need a bit of work judging by the big dent on the hood.

Willajean was right behind us, pulling her cellphone from her yoga pants, her teeth chattering. “I’ll call 9-1-1. Y’all just hold tight,” she whispered, but I heard the fear in her voice.

All three of the men were looking around suspiciously, but Fergus, a medic in his Army days, knelt down and grabbed the man’s wrist with a shake of his head. “He’s gone,” he said with quiet reverence, putting his hand over his heart.

“Yeah, he is,” Chicky agreed. “Look at all the blood on his chest. Poor bugger’s been shot.”

Fab gasped, and I gripped her hand tighter as I took a closer look. Sure enough, there was a gaping hole in his chest. It looked like he’d rolled off the car and landed on his back, his eyes wide with surprise, a stream of water running under his back and into the drain by the curb.

Then I noticed something else. He had on a black hoodie…

A black hoodie.

Out of the blue, I had a flashback to earlier today and remembered something else.

Snakeskin boots…

The guy who’d almost plowed us down in town today had worn a dark hoodie and snakeskin boots—and so did this guy.

Pack stood to my left, peering into the darkness outside the glow of the streetlamp. He scrubbed his jaw with his big hand. “Sweet Jimmy Hendrix, you know who that is, don’t ya?”

I turned to look at him as he tucked his whiskered chin into his down jacket, shocked he knew the victim. “You know him?”

“Yeah. He’s that guy over on Dahlia Drive. You know, the one always barkin’ about Blanche Carson parking on his side of the street in front of his mobile home? What’s his name, old man?” Pack prompted Fergus with a nudge.

Fergus pulled his glasses from his pea coat, hiking up his camouflage pants and taking a good long look at the man on the ground. “Aw, heck, it sure is. That’s Cyrus Fife! Holy smackers—who’d he bend outta shape?”

I pulled a shaking Fab closer and rubbed her arm. “Are you okay?”

I heard her gulp even over the roar of the wind. “I’m fine. Swear it.”

“Where’s your phone?”

She handed it to me with icy fingers and I clicked on the flashlight app, shining it on the man named Cyrus.

I avoided the gunshot wound like the plague, but I skimmed his body to see if there was anything I could detect from a quick glance before the paramedics and police arrived.

Turning to Fab, I looked into her dark eyes and saw her fear. Brushing her hair from her mouth, I asked, “Are you sure you’re okay? Are you hurt at all?”

She shook her head with a shiver. “No…no. I’m okay, but c’mon, Ev. Ghosts, and not one but two dead guys? Can this week get any creepier?” she whispered in my direction.

I gave her a quick squeeze. That was my BFF. Ever staunch in times of trouble. “Fab? Did you hear a gunshot? Did you hear anything? An argument? Something that would indicate he was being chased?”

Because I didn’t remember hearing anything, but the roar of the wind could very well have masked the sound. My double wide faced the ocean at the back of the park. I often didn’t hear anything. Kerfuffles, car accidents, golf cart collisions…I didn’t even hear Mr. Linkletter’s big husky, Bronson, barking, and he lived right behind me.

“Not a thing, but of course, I was so sucked in by work, I probably would have missed the end of the world. You know how I am.”

Pack threw his flannel jacket over her shoulders and rubbed her arms. “This’ll keep ya good and warm, Fab.”

Chicky must have gone back inside to grab a couple of throws from my couch, because he dropped one on Willajean’s shoulders and one on mine.

Like I said, they’re the best kind of people.

I tucked myself into the throw and thanked Chicky as we all stood around and waited for the police.

This Cyrus guy must have come from between our mobile homes. Dahlia Drive was two streets away and directly behind me. I live on Hydrangea Lane. We weren’t so far apart I couldn’t just take a peek, right?

I stepped back from the silence of our small group as others in the park began to gather and made my way toward the side of my house.

All of our backyards were fenced in, leaving about five feet of open space on either side of each house, creating almost like a grassed alleyway. As everyone talked and consoled Fab, I snuck away and jogged between the fences, holding up the flashlight to see if maybe Cyrus had dropped something. He’d clearly been running away

If for sure he was the guy who’d held a gun on Miss Bernadette, maybe the spoons were somewhere in the vicinity. I realize that was probably wishful thinking. Whoever shot him probably took the spoons, too, but if I could find just a hint of a clue to this mess, I’d feel a little better about Ferris and maybe I could entice him back.

I made it all the way to Dahlia Drive, my socks soaked now, my feet like ice as I panted for breath. Shoot, I remember a time when Fab and I used to run up and down the hill we lived atop like we had wings on our feet, and nowadays, I couldn’t run twenty feet without being out of breath.

Something had to be done about the poor shape I was in.

I walked around Blanche Carson’s mobile home. She had one of those new fancy farmhouse-style double wides that looked almost like a stick-built house. Pack had said Blanche always parked across the street in front of Cyrus’s house.

As I stood at the edge of Blanche’s property and looked directly across the street, I saw what I guessed was Cyrus Fife’s house. It was a pretty nice little mobile home. Tan with wood shutters and new siding. Everything in the yard neat and tidy.

I was so grateful for the folks who ran the park. They kept the common areas pristine and they enforced the rules about managing your property and taking care of it.

All our homes were parked sideways to allow maximum use of space. That meant the ends, not the front of our homes, faced the paved streets. Typically, the end room was a bedroom with a window or two facing the road. Lots of folks made gardens under that window, as had Cyrus. A birdbath surrounded by neatly trimmed bushes sat directly under the window, with pea gravel to keep the weeds out.

The lights were on in the room facing the street, but the rest of the house was dark. Scooting across the road, I almost didn’t notice how cold my feet were but for the squish of wet leaves beneath them to remind me.

I scanned the ground with the flashlight, stumbling on the gravel Cyrus had used in place of mulch under the bedroom window. I peeked right inside as though I had a right, praying no one would see me. But let’s face it, most everyone in the park was in bed by now, anyway.

Still, there wasn’t much to see. A twin bed with a neat but clearly old bedspread pulled over it. A dresser with a huge stack of magazines on top, and a nightstand with a single lamp and an old school alarm clock with bright red numbers. The room was white, nothing hanging on the walls, and the only other thing of mild interest was the pair of fun slippers neatly placed beside the bed.

They were bear slippers. My son used to have a pair when he was little.

There didn’t appear to be anyone else there, so I decided to poke around in the back if Cyrus, like most of us, left his gate open. I made my way toward the right, where his small driveway was located, as the wind howled and the rain began to pitter-patter on his carport.

The entrance to the gate was indeed open, clanging back and forth in the wind, which should have made me pause…right? Most of us don’t lock our gates, but they do lead to our back doors, so we don’t normally leave them wide open.

Anyway, I should have paused. But nah. Not me. Why would I be cautious when I can just as easily haphazardly stumble my way through this new gig as a really bad amateur sleuth?

Instead of thoroughly investigating the interior of Cyrus’s backyard, I skipped on in like I was headed out for a shopping spree at Christian Louboutin.

Well, I didn’t skip. I don’t skip. My coordination went the way of my leg warmers and scrunchies after I had my stroke. But I did crash in there like a bull in a China shop, hissing a cuss when I stepped on more pea gravel.

Holding up the flashlight, I whipped it around Cyrus’s backyard, which was also very nice and well-kept from what I could see. There was a small pile of leaves that had begun to fall on the right side of his yard where a hearty maple stood.

He had a fire pit and a gliding swing under the tree. Shining the light on the stairs leading to his back door, I spied something in a planter with some marigolds. I might not have seen it but for the gleam of the back porch light, dim but useful.

Peering into the pot, I realized it was a phone.

Now, look. From everything I’ve read, from all the cold case and murder discussion boards I’ve been on, from all the podcasts I’ve listened to, I know I shouldn’t have picked it up.

But I got excited, you know? I wasn’t thinking clearly. Rather than waste time looking at it, I shoved it into my sweatpants pocket and turned to run back down the stairs.

That was when I heard someone yell, “Nugget! Look out!”

But that wasn’t all I heard. I also heard a slight gasp and someone call my name in what I’m sure was surprise. “Evanora?”

That is, of course, before I was clobbered over the head with something that hit me so hard, I tumbled down Cyrus’s stairs and back into darkness.

Chapter Fourteen

“Sweet pea?” I heard Chicky’s voice, gruff and aged like whiskey, and I turned my head toward it, but I couldn’t seem to open my eyes.

Strong arms lifted my torso, and I had enough wherewithal to realize my backside was soaked from being on the ground.

“Evan! Sweet Sampson and Delilah! What happened?” Fab screeched.

I felt her drop to her knees beside me, in the gravel and all, as my father’s voice rang out in my ear. “They hit you, Evanora! Ohh, they’d better hope I don’t get my hands on whoever that was! They hit you with a tree limb, right on the back of your beautiful head!”

Naturally, I couldn’t address him and ask him what the heck he was doing here when I hadn’t called for him, but boy, when I got him alone, he’d get an earful.

I groaned as Fab pulled me to her, but I had to stand because the ground was cold and my rear end was numb. I feel like I’d said this a thousand times today, but I reassured them. “I’m okay, guys. Help me up, please.”

Chicky gave me a yank of my hand, setting me upright and pulling until I stood.

“Evan! You have socks on, for Pete’s sake! Your feet are soaking wet,” Fab scolded. When her face finally came into focus, it held a scowl. “What were you thinking coming over here?”

“You know what I was thinking,” I whispered before I cleared my throat, my head throbbing to the tune of the howl of the wind.

Pack wasn’t far behind with an umbrella in hand. He held it over our heads while I tried to orient myself. “Girl, what in the world are you doing over here?” he asked, a look of concern on his craggy face.

Think fast, Evanora. “I…I…I forget…” I rubbed my head for effect.

That was a total lie, but using the knock I’d taken on the noggin worked in a pinch. I couldn’t tell them I was over here snooping around Cyrus’s because I thought he had a valuable spoon, could I?

“So what the devil happened, Evan?” Pack asked.

I shivered. “I don’t know. Someone hit me on the head, if my headache tells the tale.”

“Let me see,” Chicky ordered, pulling my head forward with gentle hands. He ran his fingers over the lump forming on the back of my skull. “Well, ya got an egg on your head, that’s for sure. But you’re not bleedin’. Then he lifted my chin so he could look into my eyes. “Girl, you’re gonna give me a heart attack, you hear?”

“I’m sorry, Chick. Speaking of okay, where are Willajean and Fergus?”

“Babysittin’ the dead guy. You didn’t think we’d just leave him there all out in the rain, didja? We covered him up with one of your sheets and we’re still waitin’ on the police,” Chick responded.

As Chicky said that, I heard sirens in the distance, meaning we needed to get back because the police were sure to want to get statements from us.

“C’mon, guys, let’s get back over there so we can talk to the police. It’s late.”

But Fab held me back as Chicky and Fergus made their way back across the street. “Are you sure you’re all right, Ev? Like, what were you even doing over here? Do you want to end up dead?”

“It’s Cyrus’s house, Fab. If he was running away from the person who chased him, which I think we can assume was the case, I thought I might find something. A clue. Anything that will help me help Ferris.”

She gaped at me for a moment as raindrops dripped down her nose. “Here’s where I’m going to say something totally out of character for me. You ready?”

Mostly. “Yep.”

“No more sleuthing. You hear me? Make the anonymous call to the police about the spoon. Two people are dead, Evan, and you’ve been injured twice in one day. I can’t survive another health crisis with you—it’ll kill me. You have to take better care, and if that means not helping this ghost by snooping around and getting smacked over the head, then so be it. He’s mad at you anyway.” She grabbed my arms and made me look at her. “Do you hear me, Evanora Dark? I need you to stop playing detective now and leave this to the police.”

I knew fear and her endless supply of common sense had her in its grip. I heard it in the tremble of her voice and the look in her eyes. So I simply nodded my head and grabbed her by the hand, pulling her back toward my house and to the crime scene where another person lie dead.

* * *

As I got undressed to go to bed, I heard something thunk on the ground. Looking down at my feet, past my tired, battered body, I blinked.

Crap. I’d forgotten to hand the phone I’d found at Cyrus’s over to the police. Yes, yes. Of course I was going to give it to them. I really had forgotten about it.

They definitely asked more questions than the last go round with Ferris, but not by much. However, this time, Ernie himself had shown up, blustering and ordering everyone around while his officers asked us what we’d seen and heard.

So now, the outside of my house was a crime scene with yellow tape and everything. I bet my armchair detectives group would love to know that, but for the moment, I had other things on my mind.

Like looking at this phone and finding out who it belonged to. I stooped to pick it up, wincing at how sore I was from all the banging around today.

I really needed to join a gym.

I held it up and sat at the edge of my bed. It was a smartphone, an older model, but still current enough to have text messages and all the finery.

Carmine scooted over next to me, his whiskers tickling my thigh. “What do you think, bud? Who do you suppose this belongs to?” I pressed the button on the side and it lit up, but there’d probably be a password and all that jazz I wouldn’t be able to provide in order to get into it. Flipping it over, I looked at the phone’s cover, a picture of a cute, fluffy white kitten on the back, and figured it likely belonged to a woman.

Maybe Cyrus lived with someone? A wife? A girlfriend? According to the guys, he was a couple of years older than me. But he’d only just recently moved in, and no one knew his relationship status.

So why was this fifty-five-year-old guy stealing spoons? Was he the one who’d killed Ferris? How had he found out the spoon was valuable, and where did it go? Did the person who hit me over the head find it and take it? And who threw their phone in a planter? Unless…they were in a rush and maybe dropped it?

A thought came to me quite suddenly. “Oh, shoot. Maybe this is Cyrus’s girlfriend’s phone, and she was in on this too? What do you think, Carmine? Regardless, he’s definitely big enough to have cracked Ferris over the head.”

I needed to check for confirmation tomorrow, but I was pretty sure Cyrus was the guy who’d come barreling down the sidewalk at me. I’d bet the police had video of it. All the stores along Main Street had cameras.

Rizzo and Kenickie climbed up the doggy stairs to my bed and moaned, letting me know they were tired, but my head was swirling with questions.

The police had conducted a preliminary search of Cyrus’s house, but if the rumblings I’d heard meant anything, they didn’t find much. I’d kept one ear on them and one on the people who’d gathered on my street to listen for any local gossip about Cyrus.

If Ernie Macklemore hoped to keep this murder quiet, he was high on something. No way this newest death could survive the rumor mill here at Wildflowers by the Sea. Not a chance.

I’d heard plenty of folks talk about how secretive Cyrus was. That he wasn’t home much, but I didn’t hear anything else. I certainly didn’t hear he was a thief. That meant I was going to have to ask around tomorrow.

It also left me with a million questions about who’d bonked me on the head, and more importantly, who’d called my name just before I was knocked out? I know I heard someone say it, but I couldn’t remember if it had been female or male. Could it have been another ghost?

My stars, I hope not. I can only juggle so much sleuthing at once. Plus, they’d said my name in the form of a question. As if they were surprised by my presence.

Fab wasn’t gonna like this, but I wasn’t giving up. I couldn’t, and I’d tell her that tomorrow. It had been hard enough to get her to leave when she thought I was throwing in the towel.

I didn’t want to argue with her and upset her. A dead guy had just fallen on her car, but I couldn’t let Ferris’s murder go.

Speaking of giving up, I looked at the ceiling. “Ferris? Where are you? Please come back. We had a disagreement, and I’m sorry, but can’t we be friends?”

My fandelier (a fan and a chandelier) whirring away on the ceiling was the only sound in my otherwise silent bedroom.

I sighed and reached for the nightgown I’d tucked under my pillow this morning, throwing it on. I was going to have to call on my dad, and that meant I’d have to eat crow.

Climbing under the covers, I closed my eyes with another sigh. “Dad? You around?”

He appeared out of nowhere, dapper, handsome and transparent as ever. “Always, Nugget.”

“Why were you at the crime scene tonight? You know when you talk to me it distracts me, right? Someday I’m going to forget in the heat of the moment and answer you, and people are going to think I’m crazycakes. Do you want that?”

His sigh rasped, bouncing off the soft, creamy oyster white of my walls. Zooming toward me in one of his full-frontal facial attacks (for reference, it’s a weird ghost thing that happens in the blink of an eye and suddenly, their face is just totally in your face), he eyeballed me, his green orbs twinkling.

“Darling? Shouldn’t you be thanking me for being there? After all, I was a witness.”

I pushed my noggin back into the tufted softness of my headboard, ignoring the sting of my lump and cringed. “Stop doing that, Dad! It’s unnerving.”

He leaned back and smiled with a wink, settling on the edge of the bed near my hip, much the way he did when he used to come in to say goodnight to me as a child. “Sorry, precious angel. I forget sometimes.”

“To answer your question, no, Dad. I mean, I didn’t even know it was you and I know it sounds crazy, because yes, you did see what happened and that’s helpful, but I’d rather you didn’t show up randomly. You did it today when I was with Vaughn, too.”

He grinned wickedly. “You really gave him a good pop in the ol’ kisser, didn’t you? I’m bursting with pride, my darling.”

I shook my head. “I shouldn’t have hit him. I choose violence. What kind of parent cheers that kind of behavior?”

“The kind who knows when a young man needs to be neutered. That kind of parent, and if it makes me wrong, I don’t want to be right. He was invading your space, Evanora. In this day and age, that’s an offense worthy of prison.”

We could go round and round about this all night and get nowhere. It was easier to move on, but I couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit vindicated. We should be able to defend ourselves when we feel threatened.

“Forget all that, Dad. How about you just tell me what you saw, please. Every detail. Leave nothing out.”

Now my father went silent. A blessed and rare occasion, but not one I encouraged at this particular moment.

Now I did the full-frontal facial attack and sat up swiftly, jamming my face in his. “Dad?”

His broad shoulders slumped and he shot me the guilty-eyed look. “Nothing,” he muttered.

“What?”

“You heard me correctly, Evanora. I didn’t see anything but a dark figure knock you over your beautiful head with a big stick before seeing my afterlife pass before my eyes.”

Clenching my fists, I grit my teeth until my jaw hurt. “Dad! Seriously? You didn’t see anything? I thought you said you were a witness?”

He crossed his legs and brushed invisible lint from his trousers without looking at me. “Well, I was there, Evanora. I did witness something.”

“But you didn’t see anything that will help me find out who murdered Ferris Leopold? You didn’t see who clunked me on the head? Nothing?”

“Oh, pet. I truly didn’t. Just a tall figure in a dark coat with an enormous limb they used to whack your head. It was quick, and it was truly dreadful seeing you fall down those stairs, helpless to do anything but watch.”

Pulling the covers over my head, I groaned. We sat silently in my disappointment for a moment before I changed the subject entirely to one I’d been thinking a lot about lately, due to the fact that the ghosts in my life had a broader view of mankind than I did.

I didn’t usually bring the subject of my mother up because it was associated with a great deal of guilt and sadness for my dad. But I’d never asked this question, and dealing with Ferris made my curiosity pique.

I poked my head out and asked hesitantly, “Where is Mom’s family now?”

Knightly’s lips thinned, partially, I’m sure, due to his disappointment about the absence of my mother’s side of the family.

“We’ve talked this to death, haven’t we, Evanora? I don’t want to discourage you, but I also don’t want to continue to nurture your disappointment.”

I pushed the covers all the way off. It was true. We’d talked about it a lot as I was growing up, and he was always quite open and honest. He’d never failed to reassure me how much my mother loved me, but he also couldn’t seem to communicate with any of her family on a consistent basis.

“We have, but…I was just thinking, seeing as you can see what’s going on up there, maybe you see something I can’t see. We haven’t talked about it since you died.”

His voice went soft and warm. “Oh, my lovely. You’re my connection to this world, and you know that. I can only see those closest to you, like Fab and your father. Sadly, Christiana’s family isn’t a part of that. I wish they had been. I wish they’d been more involved with you growing up instead of simply sending a birthday card and some money. But you do know how much I loved your mother, don’t you?”

I hated bringing this up because along with the good came the memory of why he’d married her in the first place.

As his beard.

“Of course I do, Dad. I know things were different in the ’60s.”

Societal pressure and the idea he could never be who he truly was made him date and propose to my mother. He often said he’d fallen in love with her glowing spirit and beautiful eyes. According to Dad, she claimed she’d fallen in love with him because he accepted who she was—a witch—with all the trimmings.

When my mother realized my father was deeply unhappy, she’d cast a truth spell on him—because she’d been a true witch. My father always relays that conversation with such love and grace for my mother. As an adult, it made my heart ache with longing to know her.

Because she’d let him go—she said it was her turn to accept him for who he truly was. That was right before she had me, and only months before she’d found out she had cancer.

He hated that she’d wasted a single second married to him when she could have had a life full of true fulfillment with someone who loved more than only her soul.

And she’d assured him she only had me because Knightly existed. I was enough fulfillment for a lifetime. I knew how that felt because of my son, Callum. Mom words hadn’t always made sense, but they did when I’d given birth. My ex had helped me create the love of my life, the apple of my eye, and even though he wasn’t a stellar parent, he’d given me Callum.

My father looked at me with such raw emotion, my heart throbbed in my chest. “I’ll always regret not being strong enough to resist the urge to simply be like everyone else. I wanted to be normal more than I wanted to spare someone such pain. It was selfish. But I adored your mother. She was beautiful just like you. Smart, funny, had a short fuse and a wicked sense of humor. She was everything, and she let me go. I owe her my endless gratitude for my life with Cedric and allowing me full access to you—no matter the horrid names society labeled me when we divorced.”

It was times like these I wished I could hug him. Wrap my arms around him and envelope him in my gratitude for the wonderful life he’d given me in her stead. She’d be so proud.

“I know, Dad. I really know, and you know I love you no matter what—even when you’re sticking your nose into something you shouldn’t.”

He smiled. There was a tinge of sadness to it, but more than anything, he beamed his love in return. “I wish I could help more with your mother’s family, Nugget. If nothing else, your aunt Tuppence was amusing, and you would enjoy her as an adult. She’s a little racy, if you know what I mean, but there was never a time we didn’t laugh with her.”

My hand went to my neck, where one of the few personal items left from my mother used to hang on a gold chain. A tiny pentagram she wore until the day she died. She’d asked my father to give it to me after she passed.

After my surgery, the hospital had lost it, along with some of my other personal affects, and to this day, I reached for it whenever my father spoke of my mother. To find it gone every time I felt for it still stung. Knowing she’d worn it around her neck kept her close to me, if that makes any sense at all.

Dad looked at my neck, cocking his snow-white head. “Never turned up, did it?”

I clucked my tongue. “Nope, but neither did my underwear.”

He barked a laugh. “I wish I had more for you on both counts, Nugget. Your mother’s family and what happened tonight. How’s the head anyway?”

“A little sore, but I made a quick batch of one of Mom’s concoctions and it helped. I should be good as new tomorrow.”

“I wonder how smart it was to give you that book. Do you remember the time you almost killed us with that strange brew you made to help us sleep?”

Giggling, I hunkered down under the covers farther, listening to the sound of his voice. “I did not almost kill you. You just slept for a long time. I gave you too much belladonna.”

“Which can kill a person, correct?”

I cuddled closer to Rizzo and Kenickie, my eyes heavy. “Well, it can, but Mom made sure to write that down in her magic book of healing. I just didn’t level off the measuring spoon well enough. It’s like baking. You have to be precise.”

“I remember well.” There was a pause and then he said, “Good night, sweet darling. Let your mind rest. Tomorrow’s another day, Little Detective.”

Right. Tomorrow.

As I felt my father’s ghostly presence evaporate, my body relaxed and sank into the bed.

And then a mildly familiar sensation took over. The one where I felt light as a feather and every molecule around me became magnified, lifting me up.

And then I felt that other sensation.

The one that meant I was going to have a bad hair day tomorrow.

Chapter Fifteen

I saw myself, lying on the bed. Tucked under the covers as Rizzo, Kenickie, and Carmine’s backs lifted and fell, breathing in peaceful slumber.

The phone I’d found was beside me, still lit up. Light as a feather (which, if you knew my midlife weight, the notion would make you laugh until you threw up), I floated up—up-up-up toward the ceiling, where I slipped between the whirring blades of my fandelier and outside to the night sky.

I didn’t feel the cold, nor did the wind make me shiver. I simply glided, passing clusters of stars before I caught myself and remembered my research.

I was, of course, astral projecting—somewhere—and that’s what I needed to take control of. The where of it all.

I had to figure out where the stuffing I was headed and why.

After the first time this occurred, I’d done a bit of poking around online, unsure about what was true and what wasn’t. However, I’d picked up a few tidbits here and there, and one of the blogs I’d read said you most often tend to astral project when something is on your mind.

Meaning, you had to guide your body and mind to the place you wanted it to be—the source of your brain’s stress.

But it was so lovely, indulging in the night sky’s velvety midnight blue, the mashed-potato-like clouds serenely passing me by, I was reluctant to toy with it. This was the most relaxed I’d been since I’d met Ferris.

The last time I’d projected (or hedge jumped, as some call it), was complete chaos, with me zipping from place to place with no control over where I landed or how I got back. The worst was knowing I had to keep myself tethered to my body back in my bed or I’d end up a hollowed-out husk of a shell.

This time had to be different if I was to master this part of my powers. So what had I been stressing over before I’d drifted off to sleep?

Whose phone I had in my possession, and where Ferris could be.

The moment I thought those words was the moment I felt the rush of my body taking off.

I found myself face-planted against a ceiling. At least I think it was a ceiling. I eyeballed a cobweb across the room and figured I’d guessed right.

Now how to unsmush my face? I’m still trying to figure out how to move and change positions. It’s almost like the first time you use a video game controller. You walk into things, left and right are all mixed up, and so on.

Add to that, you’re weightless and you can’t touch anything to anchor yourself, and well, I’m sure you get the picture.

But somehow I managed to splay my fingers and use my hands to push off from the ceiling, wherein I did a tumbling pass Simone Biles would envy until I was right-side up. I did it to the tune of a consistent beep. As I flopped end over end, my eyes tried to focus on all the lights whizzing by.

Banging into the wall behind me kind of reminded me of being in a bounce house, where you just sort of rebounded off the walls. I was still learning how to stop myself, so I ping-ponged back across the room and caught sight of a bed.

I was never going to figure out where I was if all this tumbling didn’t stop. Not to mention, I was going to yak up my dinner.

“Enough already,” I cried out as I sailed back across the room.

Quite suddenly, I slowed.

Huh.

As I did, I floated over the bed where all the beeping was coming from. A heart monitor! It was coming from a heart monitor. I saw it quite clearly as I willed my body to relax and simply glide rather than race.

But whose heart monitor? Was I in a hospital? There was a chart at the end of the bed, but I couldn’t slow down enough to read it.

Yet, I saw the person in the bed, silently staring off out the window. An elderly woman with greasy hair, her gnarled hands resting on a stained hospital gown.

Oh my. She looked awful. Unkempt, sad. Lost.

Tears stung my eyes. Who leaves someone in this condition? Her eyes were mostly vacant, but there was sadness in them I felt in my core.

Now I needed to know who this was and why on earth I was here. I had to find out so I could help her—or at least find out if there was a good reason she was in this shape. I tried with everything I had to slow myself down even more, but it was almost an impossible feat.

And then I heard a voice whisper a sob with such deep sorrow, it made tears steam down my face. “Aw, Mom. Look at you. You’re a mess. I can’t believe they leave you like this. I’m sorry I’m not here to be sure you’re taken care of. I’m so dang sorry. I love you. I love you so much ,and I’m going to make this right. I swear it. I’ll find a way.”

My head swiveled to look over my shoulder as I headed back to the far side of the room. I knew that voice.

Oh, yes I did. Son of a coal-miner’s daughter!

Ferris.

He might already be dead, but I was going to kill him anyway. Why hadn’t he told me his mother was ill?

And could he see me? Better not take any chances.

Instantly, I looked for a place to hide so I could eavesdrop, but how the heck was I going to do that if I couldn’t even keep myself from floating around like a hot air balloon?

The plant! There was a fake, rather ragged-looking plastic plant that hadn’t seen a good dusting in a million years. It was so thick with dust, you could see clumps of it in the glint from the parking lot lights outside.

With the gift of weightlessness, something I was unlikely to experience any other time than when I projected, I tumbled effortlessly, aiming for the plant.

And I almost succeeded—but then I bounced off the wall, pushing my face back into the ceiling. Determined, I tucked my arms at my side and bent my knees, just like I used to when I was a kid doing a backflip off the dock by our house, and I willed myself to land behind the plant.

Like an astronaut in space, I haphazardly flipped backward and, there but for the grace of some unseen force and a whole lot of trash talking at my unwilling body, I landed behind the plant.

Ferris sat on the edge of the bed, much the way my father once had when he revealed himself to me, and reached for his mother’s hand. His fingers went right through hers, but that didn’t seem to matter. He let them rest on hers anyway.

“I know you probably can’t understand me, but I tried to help. I really did. I bet you’re not surprised to know I messed that all up, are you?”

The heart monitor attached to Alice sped up ever so slightly, but she didn’t move or respond otherwise.

Ferris looked at his mother with such love, I almost cried out. “I’m dead, in case no one told you. Maybe one of the nurses or doctors did? I figure the police didn’t bother to come tell you in person, since you won’t understand anyway. I really did it this time, Mom. You’re better off not having to worry about me anyway.”

Maybe Alice had dementia or Alzheimer’s if she wouldn’t understand Ferris was dead, but the police could bite my very fluffy butt if they hadn’t at least tried to tell her. At the very least, a nurse could have spoken with her.

“But don’t worry. I won’t stop trying to get you out of this disgusting dump. I promise you, Mom,” he whispered reverently, his face riddled with worry. “I’ll make you proud of me just this one time. I’ll find someone else to help me. Evanora can’t be the only game in town, right? Man, did she turn out to be a disappointment—or maybe it’s just me being the disappointment the way I always am, huh?”

I gasped.

Which I regretted the moment I let the sound escape my mouth.

Ferris instantly floated to the ceiling and demanded, “I know that gasp! Evanora, is that you?” He began investigating the room, looking right through me.

He could hear me, but he couldn’t see me? How interesting. Yet another newfound facet to this astral projection thing.

I needed to split pronto, because I wanted to be in my body when I gave him the business for not telling me everything. I also wished I could hug him and tell him I’d find a way to make this right.

Ferris loved Alice. That was plain as day. For however he’d lived his life, he loved her and he wanted to help her. Without a doubt, she needed help…dignity…a bath. And I was going to do everything in my power to make that happen.

Sweet pea soup, I had to get back to my body. Please, Universe, make it so.

Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was the tone of my plea. Maybe it was sympathy for Alice’s condition. I don’t know what it was, but suddenly, I was dumped back into my body with a very ungraceful thunk.

The dogs stirred, Carmine shifted and snuggled back into his leopard-print pillow Mama Fab had made him, and I sat bolt upright, hopping out of bed to grab my robe.

Almost tripping over my feet, I headed to the living room, where I dropped down into my chair and flipped open my laptop to find out where Alice was. I intended to research hospitals and nursing homes in Salem with the view I’d seen from her room.

While I did that, I called out, “Ferris Leopold, you get your butt to my living room right this second or I’m going to call all my friends in the afterlife and have them do something…” What would I have them do? I didn’t have that kind of power. However, Ferris didn’t know that, did he? I shook my finger up at the ceiling. “I’ll have them do something really, really bad. Now get down here this instant!”

He appeared without much coaxing, his expression one of fury. “Didn’t I tell you to leave my mother alone? Why were you in her room, Evanora? How did you find her?” He roared the rapid-fire questions.

I dropped my laptop on the couch as I jumped up so fast, my hair—completely frizzed, I’m sure—got caught in my mouth when I opened it and roared back, “Don’t you dare turn this on me, Ferris Leopold! I was in her room because she obviously needs my help. You need my help! And guess what, Sassy Mouth? I’m going to help. I’m going to stick my nose right in the middle of your business until I find out who killed you and, in the process, I’m going to find out why your mother’s in such abysmal shape! Got that?”

He did that thing my father did and stuck his face directly in mine, almost leaving me breathless. “She’s in bad shape because she’s in a crappy, state-run facility, okay?”

The air in the room shifted then. It fizzled as if my home itself was letting the built-up air loose.

Blowing out a breath, I got control of my anger. “And you couldn’t tell me that before I had to find out myself?” I shook my head, my wild hair clinging to my eyelash extensions. “Nuh-uh, Ferris. That’s not the whole story. Now spit it out or I’ll figure it out on my own.”

He turned his back on me, his transparent body shimmering. “She had a stroke and, as a result, brain damage. She has a hard time with her speech and she doesn’t always understand what anyone’s saying. That’s why I told you she won’t care what happened to me—because she doesn’t even know who I am most times. Or she didn’t when I was still alive.”

I stepped around his body and stared him in the eyes, my voice softer when I said, “But now I know, Ferris, and I won’t stand for it. I won’t allow her to remain like that. She needs a bath, her hair washed. Someone to…to hold her hand.” My throat began to tighten and I had to pause.

Had either of my dads been left in this condition, there’s no way I wouldn’t do something. Alice was a human being who needed compassion.

“And you don’t think I tried?” he squeaked with outrage. “Who do you think bathed her, fed her, read to her, watched Dancing with the Stars with her? Me, Evan. Me. But this dump was all her Medicare could afford. That crappy, rundown nursing home, understaffed and underpaid. I hate that place. If I could, I’d haunt those people they call nurses in Seniors First. I would!”

“I can’t believe the state she’s in, Ferris. I’m sorry.”

“And worse? She doesn’t even know I’m dead. She probably never will because no one will bother to take the time to at least try and explain it to her. And now look where I am. How the devil can I help her now?”

His voice was so raw, so honest, I gulped as I fought me tears…big, ugly tears. “Because you have me, Ferris. I’ll help her. I’ll help you,” I whispered, dropping my chin to my chest to keep him from seeing my face.

“But how can you do that, Evan?” he asked, spreading his arms wide in a helpless gesture. “Are you suddenly rich? Her Medicare doesn’t allow for anything more expensive. And even at that, we were cutting it close to the grain. If they raise the rates even fifty bucks, she’s going to be out on the street.”

Inhaling, I remembered how stubborn and determined I could be. I’d figure it out. “So you tried to steal the spoon, right? Tried to steal it from the Swansons so you could sell it and pay for Alice’s care, didn’t you?”

“First of all, I didn’t steal it, okay?” he said with genuine disgust. “It’s the one thing I told the semi-truth about. I would never intentionally steal from Mrs. Swanson. I loved her in first grade—but that spoon was my mother’s first.”

Sure. And I was a supermodel.

Ha.

Ha.

Chapter Sixteen

He stopped talking, and if I could, I’d pinch his arm. “Look, Ferris, I’m not going to drag this out. I’ll figure this out without your help because of your mother, who needs help, but I’m not going to play into your half-truths and flights of fancy. You’re telling me your mother had a priceless spoon from the Roman Empire and you didn’t hock it? Come. On. Lie detector says that’s a lie. So If you won’t tell me everything right now, you can go. I promise I’ll find a way to help your mother, but it’s three in the morning and I’ve just spent some time floating around like a helium balloon without a control panel. It exhausts me. Talk or walk…er, float.” I pointed a finger upward for emphasis.

I plopped down on the couch while Ferris stared at me with narrowed eyes. “You see? This is the exact reason I didn’t tell you the spoon was hers, because I knew you wouldn’t believe me. I knew the Swansons wouldn’t believe me, either. I knew no one would believe me. Because I’m a dirty thief.”

I shook my finger again, my eyes grainy. “Nope. No pity parties for you, buddy. Explain yourself. I’m not the one who earned this reputation. You did that all on your own. Speak now or forever hold your piece.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I narrowed my eyes right back at him.

“I’m not lying, Evan. I have no other way to prove it other than the list from the estate sale they had for my mother’s belongings. The list of things they couldn’t sell, which was very detailed, down to a safety pin. The estate sale people donated the remaining items to a thrift shop, and the spoon was on that list. They just couldn’t remember which store they’d given it to.”

My gut seared. Could it be possible Ferris was telling the truth? He was right. I wouldn’t have believed him, and I sure didn’t think the police would have either.

“So where were you during this estate sale?”

He finally sat on the chair across from me and looked me directly in the eye. “In Boston, working a job—which you can also check. I’ll give you my boss’s name. I was crab fishing to earn some extra money to get her out of that hellhole. I didn’t know the spoon was taken yet.”

I licked my lips, my body sinking into the couch. “And where did Alice get this spoon? Did she even know she had something so valuable?”

I watched his throat work, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he was telling me the truth. “Yeah. She did. A short while before her stroke, she’d told me a story about my grandfather, who’d served in the war. According to my dad, he brought it home from Italy and my father kept it to remember my grandpa.”

My mouth fell open. “Wait, so you’re telling me the theory from that article about a soldier finding it, and not knowing it was priceless, was true?”

His sigh was ragged. “Yes. For my dad, it was just a keepsake. No one knew what it was worth. My dad had no idea it was valuable, but my mom’s a real history buff, and when she ran across the spoon in some of his things, she did some digging and found out it was from the Roman Empire, just like that article told you. She wrote me a letter, telling me all about it, that I didn’t get until well after she’d had her stroke. She mailed it to my work. She wasn’t much into email or the Internet. She actually went to the library and researched the spoon.”

Holy Gaius Octavius Thurinus. I was aghast. “So why didn’t she sell it, Ferris?”

He looked down at his feet. “Because she had a stroke before she could, if the date on the letter is correct. Then she was in a coma for a while, and I came to be with her. When they said she wouldn’t be returning to her apartment, I set up the estate sale before I went back to Boston to get my stuff to move back here. I needed the cash from that sale to help pay for her care, Evan. In Boston, I got the letter my boss had kept safe for me and…well, you know the rest.”

Okay, that was all well and good, but I wasn’t totally there yet. “But how did you know it was with the Swansons?”

He ran a hand through his hair, and this time, his face showed true determination. There was no joking happening. “I went to every thrift store and Goodwill I could find from Salem to here. The estate sale people had some confusion over where they’d donated the items, but I had their list of usual places. I spent three days looking for that stupid spoon, and I found it—sort of.”

Hmmm. “So explain how Mrs. Swanson bought it, and how you found out she bought it?”

He shrugged. “I did what I do best. I put on a disguise. You know, a wig, knit hat, dark glasses, and I lied my keister off. Thankfully, that lady Mrs. Benedetto is a real talker. I get the feeling she doesn’t get much conversation at home. Not everyone was so willing to give me info on their customers. But I guess she figured it was just a stupid spoon. I told her I was a spoon collector, and she bought it. I found out where the spoon went after I showed her a picture, and I went to the Swansons’ that night.”

“But rightfully, the Swansons owned it,” I gently reminded.

Now he looked guilty. “You’re right, and I went about this is the usual foolhardy way I do things, but I swear to you, my intent was to find a buyer and share the money with her—anonymously. I loved Mrs. Swanson. When I realized she was the one who had the spoon, I couldn’t believe the coincidence. But I would never shaft her, Evan. I mean that more than I’ve ever meant anything. But then…then I got myself killed.”

Now my eyes were wide open. “Then who the frack killed you? Was there anyone around who heard you ask after the spoon? Did anyone—anyone at all—know your mother had that spoon? Because I don’t know if you’re aware, but someone else is dead because of this spoon.”

“No! Who?” he squeaked in clear horror.

“A guy named Cyrus Fife. The guy who stole the spoon from Bernadette.” I reminded him how the spoon got back to the store, and I told him what happened with the robbery as I looked up Cyrus on Facebook, to show Ferris his picture.

But Ferris shook his head. “No one else knew about the spoon. Mom said as much in the letter, and I’ve never seen this guy before in my life. Swear it. He’s dead?”

“Uh-huh. Someone shot him today, right here in the park. Cyrus lived here. We think he was being chased by someone, because he landed right on Fab’s car before he crashed to the ground.”

“But I’m guessing no one found the spoon, right?”

I clucked my tongue and fought a yawn. “You’re guessing right. But I did find a phone while I was investigating. I don’t know whose it is, but I have to turn it over to the police. I forgot all about it tonight because I took a slug to the head.”

“So you didn’t give up even when I did?” he asked rather sheepishly.

“I didn’t. No ghostly hissy fit can seem to keep me from sticking my nose in where it probably doesn’t belong.”

He chuckled, but then Ferris sobered. “How did you even find my mother?”

Stretching, I rose to go get that infernal phone, slipping down my small hallway as quietly as I could so as not to disturb the dogs and Carmine. “That’s a mystery only the universe and whoever’s in charge of it knows the answer to. I was fretting over this whole mess and your disappearance, and because I can’t ever give up no matter what, I guess I was thinking about you when I fell asleep. Then kablam, I was dumped in your mother’s room at the nursing home. It was meant to be, I guess.”

“You never mentioned you could…what was it you did to get there? Time travel?”

I opened the door to my bedroom and dragged the phone out from under Kenickie’s hefty length, stroking his back until he settled once more. “It’s called astral projecting, and it didn’t start until after I had my open-heart surgery.”

Ferris floated beside me, eyeing the phone. “So you’re not just a medium, you have kooky powers, too?”

“Excuse me. I’m a witch, thank you very much,” I replied with a grin.

He held up his hands as I sat back down on the couch. “A witch. You’re a witch. I guess I never asked about you. I’m sorry, Evan.”

“This isn’t about me, Ferris. It’s about Alice.” I held up the phone, which lit up immediately.

Ferris gave it a good once-over with his eyes. “Did you try swiping up?”

“Of course I—” I swiped up—and boom. Lo and behold, it opened. I shot him a guilty glance. “Okay, so I didn’t swipe up. My father showed up, and then I fell asleep. Some sleuth I am, huh?”

Geez, I felt like an idiot.

“Hey, Evan? What was that guy’s name again?”

I blinked as I looked down at the phone after fishing around and finding the name attached to it.

“Cyrus Fife! Holy Find of the Century!” I jumped up from the couch, bouncing on my feet in excitement.

Then I slowed and frowned as I scrolled his text messages. “Who do you suppose My Woman is?”

Because he sure had texted an awful lot with her, whoever she was…and they sure liked to reference a very expensive item…

Chapter Seventeen

I could hardly keep my eyes open today, my body felt like I’d been put on one of those medieval stretching racks, and my hip burned like a house afire. But I was determined to start asking questions.

Right after I had a quick early breakfast with Cedrick. He was a morning person, and I’d almost forgotten we had a date today at the Crack of Dawn—a favorite breakfast place of ours.

But he reminded me by calling me at five a.m. for our meet at six. My dad was nothing if not punctual.

Because I’d hardly slept a wink, I was actually early. Currently, I was experiencing the crash after projecting. It hadn’t hit me until I was taking a quick shower, but man, I felt drowsy, my limbs like Jell-O.

Now, here’s the score. I know dang well I shouldn’t be scrolling through evidence, and I knew I had to turn this phone into the police, but after all this, I couldn’t help but look.

I mean, wouldn’t you?

I don’t know the first thing about figuring out the identity of the person Cyrus had been texting. Nor do I know how to retrieve deleted texts, or if there were any to begin with.

What I did know?

My Woman knew about the spoon and had been in cahoots with Cyrus to steal it. The last text he’d received from My Woman had been last night at about nine-thirty p.m., and it read, Can’t wait to see you and ride off into the sunset on our very expensive horse. Be there soon.

He’d sent her a heart and kissy-face emoji.

Surely that was a reference to that infernal spoon. So was this mystery woman the woman who’d shot Cyrus? Or was someone else involved? Because I didn’t see any other texts with a reference to a spoon.

Most of his texts were for notifications of bills that had been deducted from his bank account or confirmation of a pizza delivery from Basta, a local pizza restaurant here in Buttermilk Bay.

On my list of things to do today, besides see Bernadette, was to look deeper into Cyrus and talk to some of his coworkers, if I could figure out where he worked. I was also going to ask around the park about him. Surely someone had seen him with this woman.

The ring of the bell on the door signaled my dad had arrived, rolled up morning paper in hand. He loved the old school way of keeping up with the news. He looked crisp and handsome against the backdrop of the café.

The autumn leaves the staff had hung from the corners of the room made his salt-and-pepper hair stand out and bronzed his tanned face.

I watched as he wended his way through the black booths with cheerful orange and yellow mums on each table and admired his tall, graceful stride.

Dad greeted me with a warm grin and a big hug. Dressed in a burgundy sweater vest and collared shirt, he looked as though he’d just hopped out of the shower. “Hey, Dad. How are you?” I gave him a quick peck on the cheek and a tight squeeze.

Cedrick hugged me hard, the scent of his cologne drifting to my nose. He cupped my cheek, his brown eyes full of warm concern. “Beautiful girl, it’s wonderful to see you, but why so tired?”

Not a chance in Hades would I tell him about what I was sticking my nose into. “Because you want to meet for breakfast at six in the morning on a Satuday?” I teased. “I’m kidding. Work’s been busy, Dad. What about you? You look well rested as always. What’s new?”

Our waitress, Candace Kramer, came to take our order, briefly halting my father’s answer, but judging by the look in his eyes, the gentleman he was currently seeing was making him happy.

He ordered his usual egg whites and dry toast with black coffee. I, on the other hand, ordered a cheese omelet with a side of bacon. Astral projection works up a hearty appetite.

As Candace went off to fill our order, Cedrick reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “Sweetheart, talk to me about this murder. You left me a voicemail and said you were all right, but you don’t look all right, and I worry. I’m sorry I was away when you left me the message or wild horses couldn’t have kept me from you.”

I smiled at him, basking in his love. He made me feel safe and protected—one of his special dad skills. “It’s okay, Dad. There was no need for you to come home. That’s why I didn’t call you until late last night.” He’d been spending some time at his new boyfriend’s condo in Salem, and I didn’t want to disturb him.

“Bah, Evanora! You witnessed a murder! And even if you hadn’t, you’re never a disturbance—never.”

Chuckling, I reminded him, “No, Dad. I saw a dead body, not an actual murder. Two now, if you count last night’s.”

Cedrick went gravely pale. “What?” he hissed in a whisper.

“It happened last night in the park. In fact, it’s probably in the Gazette today.” If Ernie had loosened the reins on Judith, that is.

“I don’t want to read an article about it. I want to hear it from my daughter,” he demanded with his cultured diction, as Candace dropped off our plates. “Please, do explain.”

I told him everything that had happened, omitting my involvement with Ferris. Dad number two wasn’t a fan of my ghost sleuthing. He knew I had no choice, but he didn’t love the idea it might put me in danger.

And it showed because his face was riddled with concern. “Honestly, I have to ask the universe, hasn’t my girl been through enough? How are you feeling? How’s Fab?”

I winked at him, trying to hide my dismay over Alice and what the blankety-blank I was going to do to help her. “I’m okay, Dad. Honestly. It was kind of scary, really uncomfortable, and very sad, but we’re okay.”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “And what do Buttermilk Bay’s finest have to say for themselves about all this murdering in our fine berg?”

I heard the clear disgust in his tone. I knew how he felt about the BBPD. There’d been an incident or two early on when my dads had first moved here with me that went unattended by the police—until Della had given them a piece of her mind and made her stance on my dads’ relationship clear.

Still, Cedric was no fan. His disdain for them had never cooled.

I dismissed his inquiry to keep him from bringing up something that had hurt them so much. “You know how they do, Dad. Let’s not talk about them. Let’s talk about you and…Christo, is it?” I shot him a coy smile and giggled.

His face changed instantly, and he smiled almost wistfully. “It is, and he’s…he’s well.”

This was my father’s excited voice—he was the port to Knightly’s storm and an anchor when I needed one most. Thus, he didn’t get riled by much.

“I’m so happy for you, Dad.”

Then Cedrick looked down at his coffee, allowing his guilt to invade his happiness. Again. “How’s your father?”

I kept it light, the way I had ever since we’d hashed out Knightly’s betrayal and made peace with my father’s thieving ways. “He’s fine. He’s enjoying the afterlife and the chicken wings at the dead folks’ buffet.”

Dad cocked his head with a frown. “They have chicken wings in the afterlife?”

“According to Dad they do. Whiskey, too.”

I took a sip of my coffee and waited for him to ask me about work. This was how all our conversations once a week went. We caught up, he asked about Knightly, we were quiet for a minute while he digested, and then we laughed, hugged, said our goodbyes, and called each other every other day or so until we had our next breakfast date.

This dad was solid as a rock, and I loved him for it. As the café bustled and more patrons entered, we sat quietly for a moment. Likely he was digesting my father’s well-being, and I was brain-deep in how I would approach not only the police, but Mrs. Benedetto.

Right on cue, he asked, “How’s work, sweetheart?”

“It’s been super busy. I’m a lucky girl. Fab says that’s unusual for this time of year, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“You’re not working too hard, are you? Are you eating enough? No more licorice and coffee and calling it a complete meal?”

Rolling my eyes like I was a teenager again, I snickered. “No, Dad. I’m behaving, and I’m eating at least two solid meals a day and a light snack in between. Fab makes sure I do. Promise.”

He hesitated, and I knew why. He was going to ask me about my penchant for living every day like it was my last since my heart surgery and what I’d done at my prior job to get myself canned…er, let go for a medical sabbatical. He was worried I’d go off the deep end again.

“And no more…shenanigans?” The hesitation in his voice cracked me up. He only broached this every few conversations, but I knew it worried him.

“You mean have I thrown a party (think Office Party. The movie I took my inspiration from) the likes of which will go down in the history of HR as the best party ever?”

Cedrick bit his lip and winced. “Yes.”

Leaning back in my chair, I grinned like a Cheshire cat. I had zero regrets about this single act of defiance, and he knew it. “The one where I misappropriated company funds saved for the bigwigs of the company to wine and dine themselves in Bora-Bora, while the rest of us peons worked our butts off through the holidays?”

Now he rolled his eyes. “That’s the one, Evanora Lavinia.”

“Then nope. Company funds are now my funds, and I can’t afford to misappropriate them. Plus, I have no employees save for the occasional high schooler to help me empty a truckload of furniture for staging.”

My dad shook his head. “I still can’t believe you only got a slap on the hand. I was certain we were going to have to hire a legal eagle and it would cost all of my retirement fund to keep you out of jail.”

“I’ll admit maybe I went too far with the indoor water slide and ice castle sculpture, but those people—the jerks who treated us like slaves—wanted us to work on Christmas while they jetted off on the company’s private plane and lived it up. Not on my watch.”

It’s true. Upon my return from open-heart surgery, after my doctor told me I had to ease back into work, my bosses decided that was the time to dump yet more work in my lap.

All of their family values nonsense was just that. Nonsense. Their public persona was a bunch of marketing genius and DNAs.

After my heart attack and my failed trip to Hawaii, I’d promised myself I’d slow down. Visit home more. Spend more time with my dad and Callum, and my bosses were going to make that impossible to achieve—despite knowing I was still a health concern.

I don’t know what happened to me. I don’t know what clicked or snapped or whatever you want to call it. I didn’t even care if they fired me and I ended up working in a burger joint.

Not a chance I was going to make everyone suffer and miss the holiday with their families. The last straw was when an employee had scheduled a trip overseas to adopt a baby—as in, scheduled it almost seven months before they were due to leave—something he and his wife had long-awaited for almost eight years. Then the company decided to “delay” his vacation for their own selfish needs. But foreign consulate appointments just don’t wait.

So instead of organizing flights, huts that floated on the water, and stupid wine-tasting, I organized a company party. A huge party; the kind of party you spend thousands and thousands of dollars on.

And I enjoyed every second.

Then I got fired—or, as they called it, went on medical leave. Forever. But not before I threatened to share the emails and memos from the CEOs who’d had big-big plans for Christmas and the New Year—all left up to me to arrange.

And with things like Tik-Tok and Facebook, Twitter and such, there were plenty of places to let people know exactly how our “family-run” company treated its employees.

I’d kept that stupid job for all those years for one reason—Callum.

And then I did what everyone always preaches. I lived life to the fullest—with a lot of tired people who sorely needed to do the same, with a lot of champagne and fancy appetizers.

It was all very un-Evanora-like, and it had left my dad unnerved.

“I’m just checking,” he reassured me with serious eyes.

Patting his hand, I laughed. “Just making sure I haven’t gone off the deep end?”

Just then, the door to the café burst open, letting in a gust of cool autumn air and a rush of stomping feet.

“Evanora?” I heard my name called in a frazzled tone.

My head popped up, and so did my father’s, our eyes heading straight for the door.

It was Cary—and he looked like he’d seen a ghost.

Aw, crap. Had he seen a ghost?

Because in my world, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

Chapter Eighteen

I jumped up from my seat in the booth, nervous as all get out. “Cary?”

“Cary? Who’s Cary?” my father asked in suspicion as he, too, rose.

I held up my hand as the entire café stared at us. “It’s okay, Dad. This is Cary—”

“Cary Mann, sir. I’m a contractor. My father owns Mann Construction.” He stuck out his hand for my farther to shake. “I was with your daughter when we found…um, when the gentleman who was killed at the Swansons’ was found.”

Cedrick took his hand and then swept an arm over the booth. “Cedrick Dark. Pleasure to meet you. Please, join us, won’t you?”

But handsome-as-ever Cary shook his silver-foxed head. “No, sir, but thank you. I was just checking on Evanora to see if she was all right.”

My heart sped up, my cheeks tingled, and all of a sudden, my tongue was thick. “All right?”

“I think he means after last night, darling,” my father reminded me.

“Ooohh!” I squealed like a teenager, then felt my cheeks go hot. “How did you know about last night?”

He looked down at me, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “It was in the paper this morning. I was reading it in my truck with my morning coffee over in the town park.”

So Judith had finally gotten a spine and reported the truth. How interesting. “You mean Cyrus Fife’s shooting in front of my house?” Was that what all his huff was about? Worry for little old me? “I lowered my voice. “Yeah. It was pretty terrible.”

He gripped my upper arms and looked down at me. Wow, he was sure tall and burly. Even at six-thirty in the morning. “Were you hurt?” His eyes scanned the length of my body.

“I’m fine, but thanks for checking on me.” We stared at each other for a moment, my eyes meeting his gorgeous blue orbs.

Dad stuck his head between us. “Are you sure you won’t join us, Mr. Mann?”

My father broke the spell, and Cary shook his head. “Please, call me Cary, and no, sir, but thank you. I have work to get to. My guys are waiting at a job. I just wanted to check and be sure Evan was all right.”

Cedrick grinned. “Aren’t you a fine, upstanding young man, looking out for my daughter like that?’

Ugh. Parents, right? They never stopped embarrassing you.

I gave my father the look, one he knew well, but Cary was already backing away to leave. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Dark. I’ll give you a call later, Evan? Maybe we can grab dinner this week.”

He was gone before I could answer, but I heard my father’s low chuckle. “Someone’s got a crush on you,” he teased.

“He does not. We just met two days ago, Dad.”

My dad grinned, flashing his very white dentures as the early morning sunlight glanced them, making them gleam. “And he reads the paper. What more could a father ask for?”

I grabbed him and stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I have to go, too, Dad. I love you. I’ll call you tonight.” I reached into my pocket to put some money down on the table, but he captured my hand.

He said what he always said. “It’s on me, darling.”

Dad never let me pay, but I said what I always said, too. “It’s mine the next time. Bye, Dad!”

“Love you, sweetheart,” he called before he sat back down and opened his paper.

I ran out of the coffee shop and to my truck. It was time to get some answers. Mrs. Benedetto’s shop wouldn’t be open yet, but some of the folks at the park would already be lining up to take their water aerobics class at the pool, and I intended to get in on some of the hot goss.

* * *

I hated me in a bathing suit, but I hated Alice in a dirty hospital nightgown with unwashed hair more. I’d take the hit for that any day of the week.

On my way to our park’s indoor pool (another amazing feature of the senior park), I’d called Della and told her the name of the nursing home Alice Leopold was in, and then I told her about the woman’s condition. Without me even having to ask, she was packing her car up with supplies and gathering the girls to tend to Alice’s immediate needs.

I still wasn’t sure how on earth I’d get her out of there, but I would find a way. Until then, Della would take care of her. I secretly smiled at the wrath that nursing home was about to incur as I slipped on my bathing suit, which was basically a dress, and got ready for some water aerobics and the word on the mobile home street.

Now that I was at the pool, the scent of chlorine strong in my nose, I saw more pairs of eyes than I cared to count, all looking at me with surprise.

Okay, so I’m not a huge fan of exercise. Thus, I’d never taken a class, but they didn’t have to look that surprised. But I do work full time, and I do walk, thank you very much.

I waved to everyone and they pretended they weren’t eyeballing me like I was the reincarnation of Genghis Kahn.

Taking a deep breath, I made my way down the steps, the skirt of my bathing suit floating around me. “Hi, all! How are you?” I asked with the widest smile I could summon.

Two rows of water aerobics members all turned at once and smiled and waved. I’d purposely gotten there early in order to have a moment to talk with them.

Once class was over, I would be too cranky to do anything but take a shower while I kicked myself for doing anything it took to find a clue to Ferris’s killer while in a bathing suit.

I knew I wouldn’t have to wait long before someone approached me, looking for the word on what went down last night at my place.

“Evanora!” Ethel Misner, a cute little number, wearing a swimming cap with colorful flowers on it, swished her way over to me, making tiny waves of water. Following her lead were Mitzi Gregor and Josephine Crest. All widows, and all huge fans of Knightly when he was alive.

She waggled her fingers at me. “How are you, honey? Are you okay?”

Gosh, I’d been asked that a lot these last few days. “I’m fine, Ethel. How about you? How’s little Benito?” Benito was her tiny Yorkie, and the current love of her life.

She smiled an overly red-lipsticked smile that had left a smear on her teeth. “He’s precious as always, but forget me after what’s happened to you. You poor thing.”

I guess it was now or never. I prayed the power of Fab would compel me to put on my acting shoes and thespian my way through this.

I lowered my eyes. This didn’t take much acting at all. Seeing someone dead, quite frankly, sucked. It sucked a lot, and it would stay with me forever. “It was pretty ugly.”

“Aw, doll,” she sympathized with concerned eyes. “I can only imagine.”

“Hey, by chance, did any of you ladies know him? I feel like I should know something about him, since he lived here. I know that sounds weird, but…”

Josephine was the first to pipe up. She smoothed back her spiky-short bleached hair, her tanned fingers a stark contrast to the white-blonde. “I didn’t know him-know him, but when he moved in, we did go over to welcome him, pie in hand.”

In my mind, I called them the Widow Brigade. Make no mistake, these were healthy, young-at-heart ladies with equally healthy appetites, and a new man in the park meant the chance to make a connection was alive and well, if you know what I mean.

And they didn’t care who knew it—and for that, I applauded them. They often joked about their age and how they couldn’t wait for lightning to strike.

Mitzi nodded her agreement. She always reminded me of everyone’s grandmother. Her warm smile and sharp hazel eyes, plus her chubby red cheeks, all added up to somewhere soft to land.

“We sure did, and he was very abrupt with us. He said he was busy. Took that peach pie I made him and closed the door right in our faces,” she declared, her sweet voice chirpy and light.

“Huh,” I mumbled. “I didn’t even know he lived here until last night. When did he move in?”

“A few months ago. Maybe it was late April, early May,” Ethel confirmed.

Josephine nodded her head and adjusted her black and gold swimsuit. “Yep. He was renting from old man Joansie’s daughter, Sue. You remember him, right? He went off to assisted living in the winter and Sue couldn’t sell the place. So she rented it to Cyrus.”

I wondered if Sue would talk to me. Maybe she could give me some background on who Cyrus was.

Cupping my hands in the water, I dribbled handfuls over my shoulders. “So I guess no one really knew him…”

“His girlfriend sure knew him,” Mitzi muttered.

Ding-ding-ding. “He had a girlfriend?”

She fluffed her thinning dark brown hair. “I’m guessing he did. I saw a woman get out of a car practically every night this month when I was walking Mack.”

Oh, I could kiss her. Maybe this was My Woman? “Do you know what she looked like?” I tried not to sound too anxious, but I gotta tell ya, I was pretty jazzed. Finally, a semi-decent clue.

Mitzie sighed with regret. “I don’t wear my glasses when I’m walking and it’s been getting darker and darker at night. So I can’t really say what she looked like. I do know for sure she always wore white shoes. They were really bright.”

I fought my excitement and the rush of goosebumps along my arms and forced myself to stay calm. “Did you happen to see the kind of car she was driving, Mitzi? I mean, so we can pass it along to the police?”

She frowned, screwing up her face. “I don’t know cars from a boil on my butt. I do know it was red. I think. Maybe it was black. I can’t remember.”

Ethel nudged Mitzi, with a pretty toned arm, if you ask me. “Betchu the police’ll be asking all those questions over where he worked,” she assured.

Oh, universe, how can I thank you? I’d hit paydirt and I could barely speak the words, but I managed to ask, “Where did he work?”

“Over at that filthy nursing home that should have been shut down years ago. He was a janitor there. You know, the one in Salem. Seniors First?”

Chapter Nineteen

I almost couldn’t breathe by the time I snuck out of that infernal water aerobics class before someone caught me and raced back to my house to shower and change, invigorated by the clues I’d just found.

Fab had texted me several times to see if I was doing any snooping that could get my head knocked off, and I told her a half-truth. No. I hadn’t done any snooping worth a crack in the head.

She hadn’t asked me if I was just plain snooping. She only asked about head-cracking snooping. There’s a difference…

Then, I’d gone to the town right next door to Salem and bought myself a burner phone with cash, wearing dark sunglasses, a knit hat and a bulky jacket I’d throw away in some dumpster so I couldn’t be traced (I prayed). I’m no expert on hiding in plain sight, but I did pat myself on the back a time or two for at least trying to remain anonymous.

Lastly, I called the Buttermilk Bay PD. I placed that anonymous call to them, hoping if nothing else, they’d realize the spoon was incredibly valuable. I had no idea who had the stupid utensil, but I was betting it was Cyrus’s girlfriend—My Woman. Who named a contact in their phone something so crude anyway? They at least needed to know the spoon had some serious value and was worthy of murder.

With the worst Russian accent in the history of accents, I told them about the spoon and relayed the link to the article.

“Buttermilk Bay Police Department, Officer Green speaking. How may I direct your call?”

“Good day, yes? I am callink about…er, bad murders. Very bad.” Rubbing my sweaty palms on my jeans, I waited for the officer to digest.

“May I ask who’s calling?” the pleasant voice asked.

“Uh, no!” Oh, heavens. I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. “I mean, I will not give name, but I have information about murder for spoon at thrift shop.”

Murder for spoon. Lord, love a duck, Evan!

I could tell the officer was unsure what to do with my call by his nervous response. “How may I direct your call?”

“Listen closely. Spoon is priceless utensil from Roman times. Two mans killed for spoon. Spoon was stolen for money. Write this down. Is very important.” I gave him the link and then just before I hung up, I urged, “You must share with superiors before someone else is kaput!”

I clicked that phone off faster than I said yes to Monty LaSalle’s request to take me to the senior prom. Man, was he ever cute back in the day.

Then I drove to a parking lot, got my walk in for the day by heading to the beach, where I dropped my disguise in a barrel while ducking cameras.

As I got back into the car, Ferris appeared beside me. “Did you send those ladies to see my mother, Evan?” he asked.

“I did, and now I’m going to go shake down Mrs. Benedetto and see if she can tell me anything more about who robbed and ran at her store yesterday. Then, if I can find a way, I’m going to sneak into Cyrus’s house and snoop around some more. And then, I’m going to go to Seniors First and shake those people down, too.”

He looked me dead in the eye, his grin watery, his eyes almost relieved. “Thank you. I’ll never be able to thank you enough. That one lady, Della? She laid into that lazy staff and gave them you know what. I’ve never seen them move so fast. And she supervised my mother’s bath while another lady did her hair. It was amazing.”

Hot dang, I loved those women. Rock stars, every last one of ’em. “That’s mad marvelous, Ferris, but it’s just a start. We have a killer to catch.”

I relayed to him what I’d learned about where Cyrus worked and what the girls in the pool had told me.

“So there was a woman involved. Do you think she was the one who nailed me, too? Or was it Cyrus?”

Gripping the steering wheel as the road back to Buttermilk Bay whizzed by, I shook my head. “I don’t know, but do me a favor. Hear me out while I go over what I have? Maybe you’ll see something I’m not seeing.”

“But what about Fab? Isn’t she usually your go-to brain-stormer?”

I sighed. “Fab is scared witless I’m going to end up dead. So for now, she stays in the dark. At this point, I’m just poking around anyway—nothing dangerous.”

His hand floated in front of my face. “But isn’t that what you were doing last night? Just poking around? I don’t want you to get hurt again, Evan. Please don’t get hurt. Dying sucks.”

“Point. But forget that for now. Right now, we’re only talking. Just listen.”

He sat up straight, his torso sinking into the black material of my truck’s passenger side. “Okay. All ears on deck.”

“First, Mitzi, one of the ladies at the pool in my park, said she saw a car at Cyrus’s house. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure of the color because it was dark. Might have been red or black and she doesn’t know makes of cars at all. But she did say she saw white shoes. They sort of glowed at night.”

He nodded his cinnamon-colored head, but he didn’t say anything.

“Then there’s the penchant for clocking people in the noggin. It feels like the tool of choice for our killer. In your case, and in mine, too.”

Ferris clucked his tongue. “Okay, but can you really chalk that up to a pattern? It only happened two times. The other time someone was shot.”

“Okay, maybe I’m grasping at straws with that. But why didn’t they shoot you? Or me, for that matter?”

He cocked his head. “Do you think there are two people involved, aside from Cyrus? Like maybe one likes to shoot people and the other likes to bash heads?”

I shook my head. That felt wrong. “No. That doesn’t feel right. I mean, Cyrus labeled his girlfriend My Woman in his phone. I don’t think we’re talking genius-level planning here.”

He pinged the air with a slender finger. “Point for you. So what else do we have?”

I stared at the winding road ahead of me as the ocean passed us and thought about that. “You know what? We have nothing else. Some white shoes, which could mean Cyrus had someone else at the nursing home involved, because they wear white shoes. My Woman, and a possible girlfriend who drives a car in a color that can’t be identified because our witness didn’t have her glasses on.”

Ferris winced. “I think that means we’re stewed, Captain.”

But I narrowed my eyes and sped up a bit. The day was getting away from me and I had to find some answers and get Alice better care.

Determination be thy name.

No one was stewed until this fat lady sang.

* * *

My last stop of the day was Cyrus’s house. Mrs. Benedetto was still too shaken up to talk, so her husband had closed the store, taken her home, and given her something to help her sleep.

She’d be out until the cows came home, according to Meryl Neeson, who owned the little boutique next door to Gifts of Thrift.

Though, according to Meryl, she couldn’t remember much anyway. She declared it was all a blur, and I’d had enough blurry recounts to last me a lifetime.

Also, I had to be careful. I didn’t want to arouse suspicion and have fingers pointing at me. I did much better when I was on the outskirts of a hunt, and I’d sort of been all over while asking questions today.

Back at the park, I was glad I was under the cover of early evening. I’d decided to wait on questioning the people Cyrus worked with at the nursing home until visiting hours were open later tonight at seven. I wanted to swing by then and check on Alice anyway. Two birds, one stone.

I figured it was probably smarter to walk the grassy areas between our houses than drive to his place. I didn’t want anyone to see me, or worse, catch me breaking into his house. But I was armed with some Internet knowledge on picking locks, gloves, and a hair net under my knit cap to keep from contaminating the crime scene.

I didn’t know what else to do at this point. I mean, there hadn’t been a single word about the spoon on the evening news. So either the police hadn’t taken my call seriously (and really, who would?) or they were keeping it under wraps. Maybe I should just write them a letter—a detailed letter with everything I’d found so far.

Still, I couldn’t help but feel that whoever had stolen the spoon from Cyrus might be long gone, since things weren’t happening fast enough on the official end of this business.

Approaching Cyrus’s, I remembered to stay in the shadows, skimming the walls of his mobile home until I was at the back door. Thankfully, the police had at least turned off the back porch light, helping me stay undercover.

Pulling a bobby pin from my jacket pocket, I bent it just the way I’d seen on YouTube, jammed it in the lock, and lifted.

And then I accidentally dropped the bobby pin down between the slats of his porch deck.

I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming my frustration, but all wasn’t lost yet. I still had another three bobby pins.

Which I promptly lost in three, two, one.

Argh! After my stroke, I’d lost some dexterity in my fingers and holding onto things as small as a bobby pin wasn’t easy, but with rubber gloves on? Harder still.

Breathing deeply, I had an idea. “Dad?”

The air around me swished and shifted ever so slightly, announcing his presence. He floated above me like Casper, the deep purple of the night sky illuminating his form.

“Nugget? You called? How can I help you?”

“Listen, Dad,” I whispered, scanning the houses on either side of me. “I need to get into this house. But I can’t because I have butter fingers.”

He frowned at me, his transparent face virtually glowing. “But how can I do that, angel? You weren’t close to this man Cyrus. You know the rules about me entering places if you’re not in them, too.”

I nodded, licking my cold lips, a nervous wreck at the idea of getting caught. “Right. But hear me out.”

A mere two minutes later, I was smushing my face against the outside of Cyrus’s house, under his carport. It was as close as I could get to inside the house as my physical being would let me. I don’t know if my dad was going to find anything, or even get inside, but I had to try.

“Oh, Evanora! This is most unpleasant!” he moaned as he tried to stick a leg into the house’s siding, only to be shot back out like a cannon.

I looked around the driveway under the carport, shielded by the trees between the houses, which I hoped also buffered the sound my feet (also covered in plastic) were making on the crunchy leaves.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to help me when this all started?”

He grimaced. “That was before I felt like I was being crushed in a vise grip, darling,” he said ever so calmly.

My fingers were ice by now, but I wasn’t ready to give up. I pushed myself closer to the siding as if we’d become one. “Please keep trying, Dad. I need to find something—anything—that will help Ferris and Alice.”

“Where is Ferris anyway? Shouldn’t he be having his insides rearranged?”

“He’s not an experienced enough ghost, Dad. He’s been dead three days. We need a seasoned vet.”

My father tried once more, with no success. This time, the universe or whatever it was that prevented him from getting inside, shot him across the carport and slammed him around like a pinball.

I let my head fall back against the side of the house. This was hopeless. If I took the time to get more bobby pins, I’d never make it to Salem to see Alice and talk to some of those negligent staff members about Cyrus.

He floated in front of me, his refined tanned face filled with regret. “Aw, Nugget. I’m so sorry. I’d do anything for you. You know that. It’s just not a skill I possess at this point.”

I blew out a breath. “No, Dad. It’s okay. You did your best, and I appreciate it. I appreciate—” I stopped short. I might not be able to get inside, but maybe I could take a peek around Cyrus’s truck.

Because lo and behold, it was sitting right in front of me.

I really did sort of stink at this, didn’t I?

Cupping my hands around each side of my face, I looked inside Cyrus’s vehicle. I was too afraid to try the door, and I knew absolutely nothing about makes and models to know if this one had an alarm attached to it.

But it sure looked pretty old and beat up.

“That’s an old Datsun,” my father said, hovering by my shoulder. “A seventy-six, if I’m not mistaken, before they had car alarms and all the fanciful gadgets they’re so fond of now. This Cyrus would have had to have it custom installed.” He peered inside. “Doesn’t look like there’s an alarm. Bingo!”

I’d totally forgotten that he knew all about cars due to his less-than-savory job. “Dad!” I whisper-yelled. “I could totally kiss you!”

Without waiting, I put my hand on the handle and said a prayer it wouldn’t set off an alarm he couldn’t see. Yanking on it, I popped the door open. It creaked a bit, but it opened.

The inside of his car was a flippin’ mess, and on the off chance the police had taken pictures of the interior, I didn’t want to touch much.

As I used my flashlight app to scour the floor, I muttered, “I wonder why they didn’t take this off for evidence? Impound it or something?”

“Because Buttermilk Bay PD is a mess of disorganized clowns?”

Again, neither father loved the local police. “But isn’t this a pretty standard thing to take for evidence?”

Dad floated inside the rusty truck. “Maybe they already searched it and that’s why it’s such a mess? Certainly they’re not that pathetic. And are those really rubber gloves, Evanora? You’re supposed to use surgical gloves.”

Giving him my fed-up look, one he knew well, I shook my head. “I was in a pinch. Guess I didn’t inherit your penchant for robbing people blind, huh?” I used an umbrella’s tip to shuffle things around a little.

The lights from the house next door shone over their fence, making my father’s face look almost zombie-gray. “Aren’t you a funny girl? Next time, do consult. It will make your life decidedly easier.”

But I wasn’t listening to him. I gasped.

“Well, well, well. Look what we have here.” I had to fight to keep from screaming my triumph.

My father gave me a confused look. “Shoes, Nugget? How in all of heaven can that be important?”

I pointed to the white orthopedic shoes—shoes usually worn by nurses. These happened to have pink laces. If I wasn’t mistaken, Cyrus likely wouldn’t have worn orthopedic shoes with pink laces. Maybe these were My Woman’s shoes?

“Evanora? Why are the shoes such a find?”

“Because they might be the shoes of a killer!”

Chapter Twenty

I’d made my way to Seniors First Nursing Home by the skin of my teeth. There were ten minutes left for visiting hours, but I was going to check on Alice anyway, and while I did, I was going to look at every pair of shoes I could find.

Likely, the person who wore those shoes was long gone, but it didn’t hurt to look. I’d texted Fab to let her know where I was and to explain about Alice. I wouldn’t sleep, even after Della and the girls had raised Cain about her condition, if I didn’t see for myself she was being properly cared for.

I pushed the revolving door open, trotting across the old, yellowed ceramic tile toward the admittance desk, where a young woman with a lot of makeup sat next to the buzzer that allowed you entry.

The nurse at the entrance desk, who definitely didn’t have on white orthopedic shoes, but Crocs, looked up at me as though I’d interrupted her audition for America’s Next Top Model.

She pulled the pen from her mouth and eyed me. “Can I help you?”

I smiled as cheerfully as I could. Tucking my purse under my arm, I leaned my elbows on the desk. “You can. I’m here to see Alice Leopold.”

She looked back down at whatever she was doing and replied, “Visiting hours are over.”

I looked to the big clock on the wall. “Don’t they end at nine?”

She sucked her teeth. “Yep.”

A flare of anger shot up my spine in a sizzling reminder to keep my temper in check. “Well, it’s only ten till. I still have ten minutes left.”

Now she looked at me, the heavy rim of smudged dark eyeliner around, but her gray eyes were bored and irritated. “Visiting hours are over.”

I narrowed my eyes and fought the impulse to grab her by her fake blonde hair and wrap it around my wrist to give it a nice yank. I was tired. Today had been brutal and mostly answerless. “According to who? The sign says nine p.m.” I tapped the plastic sign on the desk for emphasis. “See? Right here.”

She yanked it off the shelf and dropped it in her desk drawer. Then she looked at me with a blank stare. “And now it doesn’t.”

Oh! Oh! Oh! The little… I clenched my fists tight, and my teeth, too. Stay chill, Evan, and throw your connections around.

I pulled my phone from the back pocket of my jeans. “Are you familiar with Della Moore?”

That got a reaction out of her. She actually blanched and almost cringed. “You mean the lady who was here earlier today, giving all the nurses a hard time? The one who said she’d call her friend on the medical board to come investigate us?”

I lifted my chin, gazing down my nose at her, thankful I’d worn my ankle boots. The extra height made me look more imposing—or at least that’s what Fab said. “That’s the one.”

But she wasn’t going to bend to authority easily. She lifted her chin, too. “Well, obviously. I just said she was the one here today giving the nurses a hard time. Everyone was talking about it. So, duh.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Open the door or I’m going to have to wake her up, and then she’s going to drag one of the medical board members over here, and no one is going to be happy they’ve been taken from their evening plans. I hear they don’t like that much, and they don’t lay you off so you can collect mani/pedi money from the government. They fire you. How ‘bout you duh that?”

She pressed the buzzer almost instantly and the doors popped open with a sad creak. I grinned at her. “Have a lovely evening.”

I’m pretty sure she gave me the finger, but I was too busy finding myself astonished at the wreck the hallways were in.

I wasn’t able to look around last night because I can’t control my body during projection, but man oh man alive, this was alarming.

Carts with medication and used needles were pushed together. Wheelchairs with vomit on them and other bodily fluids I’d prefer not to identify sat in empty corners.

The smell of urine was faint, but it was there, and there was dust covering the chair rail along the wall. I could see why Della was on this like fried on chicken. These people were living in some pretty awful conditions.

Still, I made my way down to Alice’s room and after a deep breath, I pushed the door open to find her still staring blankly out the window yet again, but she was clean and her silvery hair, though in desperate need of a trim and style, looked fresh and fluffy.

She didn’t react when the door opened, nor did she move when my boot heels clanked against the floor. I pulled up a hard metal chair and sat down next to her.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, but I’d improvise. Somehow, I had to believe hearing a kind voice penetrated the fuzzy walls of the world she was lost in, and it was important to me that she know everything would be all right.

I touched her bony hand and leaned in to look at her dull brown eyes. “Hi, Alice. I’m Evanora…a friend of Ferris’s,” I whispered, my throat tight. “I just thought I’d drop by and say hello on his behalf. You look lovely by the way. I’m so glad Della and the girls stopped by to give you a much-needed spa day.”

She didn’t say anything, but her heart monitor continued to beat a steady beat.

“I wonder, Alice. Do you like to read? I’d love to come by sometime and read to you, if you’d like. I bet you’re a romance kind of gal, huh?” I snickered as though we shared a secret. “Me, too. I have a bunch. I’ll bring some the next time I drop by.”

Her hand was cold, so I rubbed it between mine, which were always hot since midlife crashed onto the scene. Alice’s fingers twitched, but I didn’t expect anything from her.

I figured I’d just chat like I would with anyone else and somewhere in her mind, closed off to the public because of her stroke, she’d at least feel an effort to comfort her.

Sighing, I smiled at her, pushing her hair from her face. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know I’m going to make myself a presence here a couple of times a week, and I’m also going to make sure you’re taken care of. I promise, Alice.”

“Thank you, Evan. I don’t know how to thank you,” I heard Ferris whisper, his voice trembling.

He hovered over the bed, his smile watery. “Even if we can’t find that stupid spoon, I feel so much better knowing someone gives a fig because this last whole day, I’ve been feeling this really weird pull…”

I glanced up at him. I knew that pull. It was the one calling him to his final resting place, and that meant he’d be gone soon.

Somehow, that left me even sadder than I already was. In this weird mess, I’d bonded with him in a way I didn’t expect. In a human way.

In a way that made it clear, despite all the things he’d done in life, there were people who loved him, people he’d leave behind, people who’d mourn him, and people he’d mourn.

My chest was tight as I held Alice’s hand and talked to the son she loved, and who loved her. “That tug you’re feeling is your calling, Ferris. The time to find your final resting place is coming. I don’t know a lot about it, but I have heard it’s beautiful. The most beautiful thing anyone’s ever seen.”

He gave me a wry smile. “You think that means I’m not headed on the down elevator?”

I chuckled softly, letting my eyes fall to the dusty floor. “I think it does.”

“That’s kind of awesome, considering my life up till now. But what about my mom? The money from the spoon could have helped her for ten lifetimes.”

“You know, Ferris, I’ve been thinking about that. How could anyone prove the spoon belonged to them? I mean, yes, there’s your mother’s word, but she…she can’t tell anyone she had it. Not now.”

“But the estate sale people can. They logged it in their records with pictures and everything.”

Tucking my hair behind my ears, I nodded. “But what were your plans for the spoon? How would you have sold it anyway? Is there like a black market for valuable silverware?”

He settled on the other side of the bed, resting his hand on his mother’s arm. “I saw this show once on like 60 Minutes or something, about a lady who found a bust at a thrift store and she discovered it was really valuable—so she made a deal with the foreign government where the bust came from and now it’s in some museum.”

That made complete sense. I don’t know if it would have worked the same for him, but his plan had been rational. “You’re a smart guy, Ferris. I’m sorry I couldn’t help more. But if nothing else, I’ll look out for your mom. Promise. I’ll find a way to help everyone here.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the hush of the opening door. “Excuse me, ma’am? Visiting hours are over.”

I looked up to see a nurse at the door, the light from the hallway glowing around her.

It was Rosemary Benedetto.

And when I looked at her shoes, what do you suppose I saw?

White orthos with pink laces.

Zoinks.

Chapter Twenty-One

My gut burned with the thought that Rosemary likely was My Woman. It made complete sense

“Evanora? Is that you?”

Oh, crap. It was me, wasn’t it?

I began to rise and smile, though my legs felt like soft butter. “Rosemary Benedetto?” I squeaked.

No. Way.

She gave me a welcoming smile. Tall and stocky, she strolled across the room. “Yeah. Long time no see. How are you?” she asked, opening her arms for a hug.

I’m fine, you possible murderous lech. How are you and your spoon?

“Good-good,” I said, probably too fast after giving her a quick hug. I had to think, and think fast so I could get the heck out of here and go directly to the police department. “Hey, how’s your mom? Wow, that was really something yesterday, huh?”

Sweet Mother of Dragons, I needed to shut my yap. Why not remind the suspected murderer that her murdering boyfriend stole from her mother?

She blew out a breath and tucked her hands into the pockets of her surgical shirt. “Right? She’s good. Dad got her some Xanax and all’s well. She’ll probably open up the shop again tomorrow.”

I forced my eyeballs not to look at her pink shoelaces and remain on her face. A face that was feeling the test of time, just like mine. Tiny wrinkles had formed around her eyes and lines had begun to appear around her mouth. She had a white stripe of hair at her part, indicating she needed a dye job just like the rest of us.

I was having a hard time reckoning quiet, studious Rosemary with a killer. In school, she’d been part of the Chess Club, for Pete’s sake.

She’d been a candy striper. She’d been a nerd who loved all things science—which explained her nursing career. How she’d ended up in this dive, I’ll never know.

“Hey,” she said. “You okay? How do you know Alice Leopold?”

Well, Rosemary, I know her son, he’s a ghost.

Likely that wasn’t the thing to say.

Think on your feet, Evan! “Oh, I knew her son. Used to babysit him. Alice was an old family friend of my dad’s.”

She smiled, as nice as you please. “How nice that you came to see her. I think that’d make him happy…now that he’s gone, I mean.”

Yep-yep. Happy as a dog at a cat adoption fair. “I hope it would,” I offered.

She crossed her arms over her chest and clucked her tongue. “It was too bad what happened to him, don’t you think? I mean, a murder in our little town. So crazy.”

I looked down at the floor and fought the wave of chills along my spine. “Awful. Just awful. Totally crazy.” Then I looked at my phone’s clock. “Listen, Rosemary, I have to go. Fab’s waiting on me for a late-night drink,” I lied. “It was good seeing you.”

“And you,” she said, before I squeezed Alice’s hand one more time and hit the bricks, slipping through the halls as fast as I could and blowing past the prima donna at the desk.

I aimed straight for the parking lot, cursing myself for parking in the shadows around the back, by the exit from what I thought was the kitchen. But there hadn’t been any spaces in the front of the building.

Now, since the shift had ended, the lot was virtually empty. As I ran for my truck, I tried to scroll my phone to text Fab and tell her I had a huge lead, but well, stroke. I can’t seem to do two things at once.

I hate to blame some of my newfound clumsiness on my stroke, but I really was once pretty graceful and quick on my feet. Now I’m like the lead elephant in a stampede.

So I tripped over a pothole and hit the ground—for the third time this week. With a wince, I rolled over, grabbing my injured arm as I lie there, stunned, and decided to use the speech to text function.

Trying to sit up on my elbow, I held the phone up to my mouth. “Holy gadzooks, Fab! I think I know who killed Ferris and Cyrus!” I whispered into the phone, looking to see if anyone was around.

“Do you then, Evanora?”

A shadow stood over me—a tall, meaty shadow. A shadow that looked a lot like Rosemary Benedetto.

Oh, look. It was Rosemary Benedetto.

I licked my dry lips and played dumb. “Do I what?”

From the pocket of her surgical pants, she pulled out a gun. A shiny black gun, which she pointed at me with nary a qualm. “Do you know who killed Ferris and Cyrus?”

I looked up at her, my heart racing like wild horses. “It wasn’t JR, was it? No. Someone else shot him, right?”

She smiled down at me, her eyes blank. “Still funny as ever.”

I licked my suddenly dry lips and swallowed hard. “But still no plans to take it on the road. It’s tough out there for old broads like me.”

I took a deep breath. Not just because I was terrified, but because my jeans were too tight. No more wine for me.

But Rosemary wasn’t interested in witty repartee. She was interested in me six feet under. “Why couldn’t you just leave things alone? Why are you even involved in this?”

“Would you believe me if I told you I talked to his ghost?” I squeaked.

She clenched her jaw tight. “Shut up, Evan. Just shut up! Shut up with your stupid jokes and your cute little life full of pillows and candles. You don’t know what it’s like to have to scrape for everything you have because your parents taught you to value life more than the almighty dollar. I’m sick of puke and old people. I’m sick of crappy pay and even crappier benefits.”

“But you were a candy striper,” I blurted out, my elbow throbbing from holding myself up off the cold ground. “I thought you loved helping people?”

She sneered at me, aiming the gun at my face. “You know why I’m a nurse, Evan? Because my father gambled away all my college money, and my mother wanted to run a store that makes pennies. This was the only degree I could keep up with while I worked two jobs!” she howled into the night, her words raw, her eyes filling with tears.

I considered crabwalking backward, but I think we all know how that would turn out. So instead, I prattled. “Then why didn’t you quit? You’re fifty-three, Rosemary!”

She took a step closer. “I sure am. Just like you, Evan, but I didn’t have two dads who put me first. I had a mother who made excuses for my gambling drunk of a father and needed someone to support her. That’s what I had!”

Well, I might as well get it over with. If we were going to have a This Is Your Life moment, I guess I should get it all out in the open before she shot me, because I didn’t see a way out of this.

Swallowing hard, my pulse racing, the wind penetrating my thin jacket, I asked, “Is that why you killed Ferris for the spoon? Because you were going to sell it and live the life you think you deserve?”

She snorted. She snorted loud. “Well, yeah. Because I’d finally reached the end of my rope! I’d had enough of taking care of my mother because she wouldn’t take care of herself. I’d had enough of my waste of a father. So when I went through Alice’s things—because I do that, you know. I steal from lots of patients to make ends meet to cover my father’s damn debts. One day, when I was rifling through her things after a visit from her lowlife son, I found that letter from Alice about the spoon. That idiot Ferris just left it in the drawer of her nightstand! The rest was easy-peasy.”

But how had she known where the spoon landed? “Easy? How did you know where the spoon was?”

Because that mattered when you had a gun to your head. My hope was someone would drive into the parking lot and see us.

Rosemary squatted down on her haunches, the hate in her eyes fiery and burning bright. “I had Cyrus follow Ferris. I pretended I liked him. I went out to dinner with him, I cooed and cuddled enough to make me want to vomit, and I talked that dummy into helping me keep track of Ferris. It was simple. Men will do almost anything if you tell them they’re super-hot…and promise you’ll share the money with them.”

“So you killed Ferris for the spoons. Why didn’t you just take the spoons the night you killed him?”

She scoffed and sneered. “Because I heard a noise and it spooked me enough to play it safe. No one else knew about the spoons of how valuable they were. I planned to go back and get them once things cooled down a little.”

“But how did you know they were back at your mother’s store and why did Cyrus steal them?”

She sighed, a long raspy sigh that filled the night air. “Because my mother tells me every stupid piece of gossip that goes on in this town and she told me Mrs. Swanson’s daughter brought the spoons and a bunch of other junk back to the store.”

I shook my head in sheer confusion as my heart thumped in my chest. “But that doesn’t explain why Cyrus thought he had to steal them if you could just take them without anyone being the wiser. Your mother probably never would have missed them.”

Now she made a face of disgust and shook the gun at me. “Cyrus is a complete idiot. I mean, he practically held my mother at gunpoint, for crap’s sake. When my mother told me the spoons were back at the store, she told me over the phone and it was on speaker. I told Cyrus to just leave the spoons where they were. I’d get them, but he had to be some kind of hero, and pardon the expression, jump the gun,” she said on a cackle. “He was like a pet cat, bringing me a dead mouse as some grand gesture. That’s why I killed him. Because he was a brain-dead moron.”

Just then, I heard a rustle of leaves behind me. I don’t know why the sound was so acute when I was so panicked, but I heard it, and I prayed if someone was out there, they’d hear what was happening. So I kept talking while my elbows ached and my heart thrashed erratically.

“So it was you who hit me on the head?”

Rosemary rolled her eyes in disgust and she leaned over me. Leaned in so close, if it were lighter out, I’d be able to see her pupils. “Yes, it was me, Evanora! But you know that now, and if you’d have just left well enough alone instead of snooping around Cyrus’s house, you wouldn’t be on your way to your grave! I had a bad feeling when I saw you—and I was right!”

“Holy shoes!” someone yelped from out of the blue. “Those were the orthopedic shoes I saw just before I died!”

“What?” I yelled, because I’d forgotten I was being held at gunpoint by a madwoman when my ghost popped in for a visit.

“What?” Rosemary repeated. “Who are you talking to?” she looked around, and it was enough of a pause in my captivity to catch her off guard.

I guess it was adrenaline, because I can’t get up off the ground without sitting on my knees first. Yet, somehow, I popped upward like a bagel in a toaster and cracked my head against hers.

I scraped my knees while shuffling on the pavement, and I think the button on my jeans popped, but as Rosemary fell backward, the gun clattering from her hand, I fell on top of her.

Though I think I must have missed the part where Rosemary was on the wrestling team at BB high, because she rolled me over like it was her job, setting all of her weight on top of me.

“Stop!” I bellowed. “I can’t breathe!”

Again, because a murderer cares if you can’t breathe?

I got a mouthful of her midsection as she stretched forward and grabbed for the dropped gun. I knew I had to do something or it was curtains.

“Evanora!”

Fab? I heard Fab call my name. Or was that just my imagination?

No. Not my imagination. The voice caught Rosemary completely off guard, making her sit up quickly—and leaving me the opportunity to sock her right in the face. Just like I had Vaughn.

She fell backward with a bloodcurdling scream, giving me the opportunity to scramble away. The click of heels had me turning my head as I rose, dizzy with the rush of my rapid rise.

“The gun!” Fab hollered, swooping down and grabbing it.

I fell to the hard curb with a bounce while Rosemary lay on the pavement, groaning, and the sound of sirens filled the air.

Fab held the gun up in trembling hands as she snarled at me, “Evanora Lavinia Dark! What have you been up to?”

* * *

As I sat in the back of the ambulance and they checked my blood pressure and patched up my scraped palms, while the police took Rosemary Benedetto away in handcuffs, Fab climbed aboard and narrowed her coal eyes at me.

Phew boy. I was in for it.

She gripped my hand, hers cold and shaking. “I want to give you a real reaming, Evan. Now we’re running around in cold, dark parking lots chasing after psychopaths. It’s like a bad Lifetime movie.”

I gave her the best guilty look I had. “I told you, Fabiola Fabrizio, I didn’t mean to chase anything. She chased me.”

I’d explained how I’d ended up at gunpoint, and Fab explained how she’d gotten my text just as she was headed over here to see if I wanted to grab a late-night hamburger after my visit with Alice.

When she got here, she’d pulled into the parking lot, driving around back while looking for my car, and saw Rosemary holding me at gunpoint. She’d immediately called the police.

With a shiver, she gave me the I-give-up look. “Fine, but you were still snooping, weren’t you?”

I smiled at her and gripped her hand tight. “Sort of, but I was just looking for shoes, Fab, swear it. I sure didn’t plan to spend the evening with The Black Widow.”

Wrinkling her nose, Fab shook her head. “Shoes? Who shoe shops at a nursing home? You’d better explain.”

“Evanora?”

I sat up straight. Ferris. That was Ferris calling me, his voice faint. I looked outside the doors of the ambulance to see him hovering by a big maple.

Looking to Fab, I whispered. “Gimme a sec, would you?”

“Is it him?”

Grateful she could almost always read my facial expressions, I said, “Yeah. I think, he’s leaving.”

Pressing a kiss to my cheek, she handed me her phone. “For heaven’s sake, pretend you’re on the phone.”

Pushing my way past the paramedics, I slipped over to the tree where Ferris hovered, his image growing grainier by the second.

I leaned against the tree for support. I was still shaky after my smackdown with Rosemary. “Ferris! Did you see?”

He smiled and nodded. “I did. I can’t believe I did something as stupid as leave that letter from my mother in her nightstand here. I knew this place was shady, but…”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “But you couldn’t have known someone would read it.”

Ferris kept looking over his shoulder, distracted, but he appeared to fight to maintain focus. “Thank you for everything, Evanora. I’ll never forget it, but I think I have to go now. Tell my mom I love her. Tell her I love her to infinity and beyond, would you? I hope she’ll know what I mean.”

Gosh, I didn’t think I would feel this sad, but I found myself wishing I could give him one hug. Just one. Nodding, I wiped the tears from my eyes. “I will. Promise. Safe journey, friend.”

“Bye, Evanora Lavinia Dark,” he whispered. “Have an amazing life.”

And with that, his image faded to nothing but the night surrounding me while my heart chugged and tears fell down my face.

“Evan?”

I turned around to find Cary standing there, as handsome this late at night as he was during the day. “Cary?”

“What are you doing here? What’s going on?”

Wiping my eyes, I sniffled. “What are you doing here?”

He put his hands in his down vest pockets. “I’ve been in the basement for three hours, trying to restart a water heater that hasn’t seen a repairman in a hundred years. I told Della I’d check it on my way home.”

Della. She was legend.

Cary moved closer to me, his concerned eyes scanning my face. “You’ve been crying. What happened? Can I help?”

I couldn’t help it, I began to sob. And without warning, he pulled me into his arms.

And I wasn’t mad about it.

Tears raced down my face at a rapid rate while I gasped for breath and in general sounded like a snorting pig.

“Hey, hey now,” he said against my ear with his gruff voice. “Don’t cry. Tell me how I can help.”

I let my forehead rest against his broad chest with a sigh that wasn’t completely about relief for the end of my harrowing experience. “It’s been a crazy night, that’s all.”

“Are you the reason why the police are here in droves?”

“Maybe…” I whispered sheepishly.

He lifted my chin with the tips of his calloused fingers. “Want to tell me about it over a cup of coffee and some pie? I find myself hankering for a piece of coconut custard.”

I backed away slightly and smiled. “You like coconut custard? I’m a blueberry girl.”

He gave me his arm to guide me away from the tree. “Whipped cream or no whipped cream?”

I hooked my arm through his really muscled one. “Well, duh. For sure whipped cream. But I bet you skip that so you can keep all your muscles.”

He laughed as I led him back to the ambulance, so I could give Fab her phone. “Lies. That’s a total lie. I never miss out on whipped cream. Now the real question is, graham cracker crust or pastry.”

I rolled my eyes, feeling a little bit safer next to him. “That’s a no-brainer. Pastry, of course.”

“Oh, Evanora Dark. What am I gonna do with your crummy taste in food?”

I snickered then, grateful to still be alive to have a conversation as ridiculous as this one about pie.

“I think the real question is, what are we gonna do about yours?”

We laughed as he guided me away from the chaos of the night and into something much more promising.

Epilogue

I rang my dad’s doorbell at exactly seven sharp for dinner. He was making his famous roast chicken and new potatoes with white wine gravy. We did this every month or so. Just the two of us, sitting on the gorgeous cedar deck overlooking the ocean, listening to the waves, catching up, and sharing a delicious meal.

Now that fall was fully upon us, we’d look at the wealth of trees and their changing colors surrounding the deck by a warm fire in the stone fireplace.

I think some of my love for decorating comes from Dad number two. Cedrick had a gift, and he’d made the home I’d grown up in cozy and full of warmth.

It’s been about two weeks since everything went down at the nursing home, and I’m happy to report the spoon was recovered from Rosemary’s bedroom at her parents’ house, and the Italian government, once things were cleared from evidence, was willing to pay a hefty sum that Alice and the Swansons would share—meaning, Alice was taken care of for life.

I’d been to see her a few times since Ferris went off to the great beyond, and she still didn’t talk, but she was in a state-of-the-art facility and looked healthier than ever. I’d told her about Ferris’s passing, because it was the right thing to do.

She hadn’t responded, but her heart monitor had. For a few beeps, it had gone up. Then as I assured her everything would be all right, and Ferris had told me to tell her he loved her to infinity and beyond, she settled right back down again.

Seniors First was in the throes of a brutal investigation, full of scandal and exposure the state wasn’t going to like splashed all over social media and television. That meant things were getting done, and I couldn’t be more pleased.

Today we were celebrating family and life. Rizzo and Kenickie knew Pop-Pop Cedrick’s house well, and their excitement and butt wiggles always made me laugh.

Dad popped open the large white oak door and smiled—even if his eyes strangely avoided mine. He pulled me into a hug, warm and calming. “Sweet girl! I’m so happy to see you. Come—come in.”

I’m not sure if it was my newly acquired sensitivity to off-kilter vibes, or if I was imagining things, but dad sounded falsely cheerful.

I stopped short in the wide entryway. The spot I’d taken off my shoes every day after school, and where I’d met each date I’d ever been on.

“Dad?”

He paused by the enormous kitchen island, cocking his head, but he didn’t turn around. “Yes, darling?”

Rizzo and Kenickie ran off to their respective beds by the fireplace in the living room while I broached this awkward moment. “What’s going on?”

“On?” he said, his usually warm, low tone sounding a bit shrill.

Yeah. Something was up.

“Daaaad? What gives.”

Cedrick swung around quite suddenly, hie eyes meeting mine with an apology in them, his hand in the air. “Before you get too worried, let me just explain…”

“Explain what?”

“Evanora?” I heard a female voice call out from the deck. “Oh, land alive, you’re just as beautiful as your mother.”

Right there in the doorway stood a woman, a stately, white-haired-with-a-dramatic-side-part, bejeweled woman, wearing a flowing silk scarf jauntily wrapped around her neck and a floaty mid-length dress made of crepe. Sharp green eyes focused on me.

I squared my shoulders and held out my hand, curious. “I am Evanora. You are?”

She waved away my hand, her smile wide. “Get that thing out of here. We’re family, gorgeous girl. Come give your auntie a hug.”

In a swirl of floral perfume, I was enveloped in a hug filled with warmth from my aunt.

My aunt…

As in Tuppence?

I mean, who knows, right? I hadn’t seen her since I was small and even though she’d sent her condolences about Knightly, it was just a card and some flowers. She didn’t have any social media, because trust, I’d tried looking her up. I had almost no frame of reference for what she looked like.

She leaned back in our embrace and took a good look at me, running her fingers over my cheek while my dad stood in the background, looking as though he were waiting for me to explode.

He mouthed the words I’m sorry (dad knows I don’t like surprises) and pointed to the top of the woman’s head.

She planted her hands on her slender hips, her thick white hair just at her jawline, bouncing. “I can tell by the look on your face you’re not sure who I am, and that leaves me sadder than a one-armed baseball player. I’m your aunt Tuppence, honey! Your mother’s older sister, but only by two years, mind you. Oooh, you’re just as pretty as I remember.”

If you’d gut-punched me, I couldn’t be more surprised. “You mean I’m prettier than I was when I was a baby? I should think I’ve changed entirely since I wore diapers. Though, I’m not far off from the diaper stage again as the crow flies.”

She winked her green eye. “You’re a sharp one, eh? Just like Christiana. She’d be so proud. Now,” she said, holding out her hand to me. “Don’t hold a grudge. I know you’re angry that I haven’t been in touch.”

“I’m not angry. I’d have to be interested to be angry.” There was a small voice inside my head that whispered, Don’t be a nudge, Evan. But my pride was bigger.

Of course, that wasn’t true. I was furious. To show up now, after all that had passed? Baloney. I didn’t need relatives like that.

Now Dad came to stand next to me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. “Hear her out, honey. For me.”

“And for me,” Knightly said, appearing out of thin air.

I looked up at him. “Dad,” I whispered out of the side of my mouth. “Not now!”

Aunt Tuppence looked right at my father. “Ah, Knightly! It’s been so long. You look wonderful as always.”

Now I backed away from them, heading for the kitchen and some wine. I felt like I was going to need it once I heard whatever this was about. Flinging open a white oak cabinet door, I grabbed a wine glass.

A big one.

I grabbed the wine bottle my dad had on ice and poured, then I poured some more. Then I took a nice long gulp. Holding up the glass, I tipped it in their direction and took a deep, cleansing breath. “Okay. What’s going on? Aunt Tuppence can see Dad?”

“Oh, darling girl,” she whispered. “I never wanted it to come to this. More specifically, your mother never wanted it to come to this.”

My cheeks felt overly hot as I leaned against the counter, letting the cool marble ease the heat of my back. “Come to what?”

Aunt Tuppence walked across the room, all style and graceful ballerina, while my dads stood side by side, both so handsome. One of them completely unaware his deceased husband was standing right next to him.

She took my hand and gripped it. “Come to the life you have no choice but to lead now.”

My hand remained loose in her grip. “Is this like a riddle or something.”

But there was a twinkle in her eye as she released my hand and toyed with the necklace around her neck. “Listen up, my little witch, and listen well. Your mother, my beloved sister, was a ghost talker, too. She helped ghosts solve the crimes of their demise just like you’ve been doing.”

My eyes instantly went to Cedrick, who was going to be very angry with me. He didn’t like the crime-solving part of this ghost-talking thing.

I opened my mouth to apologize, but he held up a weathered hand. “It’s all right, darling. I know all about Ferris Leopold. Your aunt told me it was probably you who’d helped solve the case. She said it was almost exactly how your mother used to do it.”

By bumbling around like a complete nitwit?

I’d made more than a few mistakes with Ferris’s murder. I couldn’t change them, but I could learn from them.

Yet, I still didn’t know what all this meant. “Okay, and…?” I said, taking another big gulp of wine, trying not to show my surprise. “You don’t think I might have needed to know that sometime before I was fifty-three?”

I couldn’t help the tone of my voice. All these years I’d longed for a connection to my mother’s side of the family. All my life. And now, when it was likely more than half over, someone finally steps up to the plate?

“Nugget. Please listen to her,” my father implored. “Tuppence told us everything. What’s passed was done out of love. I promise you.”

“Your father’s right,” Aunt Tuppence reassured me.

Cedrick shot us a confused look. “Which one?”

“Knightly, Dad. She means Knightly.” Then I turned to her. “What was done in love? When you love someone, do you abandon them with powers they want to understand, but have no firsthand knowledge of? Do you abandon them when they want to understand where half of their nature comes from?”

“You do when you want the one and only thing you’ll ever want from the moment they’re born,” Aunt Tuppence said, her green eyes fiery. “You do when your sister begs you to heed to her last wishes.”

I got chills up my spine then. My mother had asked her to abandon me? That was impossible. Had my fathers hidden that from me all these years? Was everything a lie?

Gulping, I tried to speak the words. “I…don’t…I don’t understand.”

Surely by now, I’d angered her, but she was still smiling warmly at me, as if I hadn’t just accused her of abandonment. “Your mother didn’t want this for you. She didn’t want you to talk to ghosts. She didn’t want you to be around anyone who did. She wanted you to enjoy your life, and so did I.”

My mouth slid open until I’m sure my jaw looked unhinged. “She talked to ghosts, too…” I was still digesting that.

I watched her under the canned lights in my father’s kitchen, glowing, striking for her age, but her face held pain. “She did. Ever since she was in a crib. We both did. But it’s not an easy life, as I’m sure you’ve witnessed, Evanora. It’s harder as a child, as a teenager—when you don’t have the guile to hide the sudden visits from apparitions out of nowhere, the conversations where it appears as though you’re talking to yourself. The constant disturbance of an entity in need. It was hard on her, lovely girl. Maybe harder on her than me.”

My throat was so dry, ten bottles of wine might not quench my thirst. I gripped the stem of my glass. “So she wasn’t just a witch who conjured spells and potions and made the occasional realm jump?”

“Oh, no, Precious. She was wonderfully powerful, but she never embraced it the way I did. To Christiana, it was an intrusion. When she got pregnant with you, she was adamant about keeping this part of her life from you. She didn’t want it to interfere with raising you…and when she found out she was dying…well…”

My throat closed up and hot tears filled my eyes. But I knew what came next. “She asked you to keep it from me…” I murmured.

“And she asked me to keep it from your father.”

I blinked in my disorientation. “She asked you to stay away from me so that I wouldn’t ask questions. But that was all for what? This ghost thing didn’t happen to me until I was fifty.”

But Tuppence shook her snow-white head. From the pocket of her floaty dress, she pulled out a gold chain with something attached to it. Something I couldn’t see because I didn’t have my glasses.

She held it up and the light glinted across it. “You had one just like this, Evanora, remember? You’ve worn it since you were a child.”

Instantly, my hand went to my throat. “I…I lost it when I had my open-heart surgery…”

Oh.

Oh, wait.

Tuppence must have seen the lightbulb over my head, because she filled in the blanks. “Yes. You lost it…and the necklace was what protected you from seeing ghosts all these years. It diluted your powers. Muted them, if you will. It had a protective spell on it, cast by your mother, so you would never know the struggles she knew.”

I blinked, and then I blinked again, in a state of complete shock. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

But Aunt Tuppence? She spread her arms wide, her bangle bracelets clanking together as she pulled me close and whispered, “Welcome to the fold, precious girl…”

The End

Until next time, anyway… I hope you’ll join me for book two, titled Bohemian Tragedy, where, with the guidance of Aunt Tuppence, Evanora is going to learn just how powerful a witch she is, discover new powers, maybe have a hot date or two with the yummy Cary Mann and, above all, help save the afterlife’s ghosts, one hot flash at a time!

About the Author

Dakota Cassidy is a USA Today bestselling author with over almost one-hundred books. She writes laugh-out-loud cozy mysteries, romantic comedy, grab-some-ice erotic romance, hot and sexy alpha males, paranormal shifters, contemporary kick-ass women, and more.

Dakota lives in Texas with her real-life hero and her dogs, and she loves hearing from readers!

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Also by Dakota Cassidy

Visit Dakota’s website at http://www.dakotacassidy.com for more information.

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Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Copyright
- Acknowledgments
- Author’s Note
- Stage Fright
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Epilogue
- About the Author
- Also by Dakota Cassidy