Here ghost nothing, p.1
Here Ghost Nothing, page 1
Copyright © 2021 by Jane Hinchey
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any way without written permission from the publisher, except as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons is purely coincidental. Unauthorized use could spark the wrath of supernatural forces - or worse, land you as the next curious case in one of my mysteries!
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Afterword
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About Jane
CHAPTER ONE
I’d been having the best dream. One where I owned a café and had unlimited access to coffee. We’re talking affogato, Americano, caffe latte, caffe mocha, café au lait, cappuccino, espresso, espresso macchiato, latte macchiato, and everything in between. Coffee porn, if you like. And I did like it. Very much.
It was the third dream I’d had of its kind this week, all because of a stupid dare with my sister-in-law, Amanda. Why, oh, why did I let her bait me? Why didn’t I just walk away? I knew this was her latest attempt to fix me. According to Amanda, my inherent clumsiness could be cured, and her latest remedy was to remove caffeine from my life. It had started involuntarily when she’d switched out my coffee pods for decaf behind my back.
Things had escalated from there. I couldn’t let that transgression go unpunished. I’d switched her organic, herbal shampoo and conditioner for the cheapest supermarket brand I could find in retaliation. She’d been furious, and I’d been up in her face about messing with my coffee, which is when she issued the dare. One week without coffee.
Easy! I’d scoffed, shaking her hand to seal the deal. If I won, she vowed never to interfere in my life ever again. If I lost? I had to give up caffeine for good.
But something was pulling me out of the best dream in the world, something intruding and prodding me awake. I curled into a ball, tugging the comforter up around my chin, chasing the dream that was rapidly slipping from my reach with a desperation not to leave my blissful coffee hazed nirvana.
Then the music started. Softly at first but rising in volume. Something about a baby on fire. Wha? After a moment, I realized it was the dulcet tones of Pitbull singing Fireball, the ringtone I’d chosen for my new phone. Groaning, I pried open my eyes and felt around on the nightstand for it, succeeding in knocking it to the floor where Pitbull continued his woohooing.
I turned my attention to the dead guy standing at the foot of my bed.
“Can you get that?” My voice came out like rusty nails. No surprise since I’d taken to replacing coffee with whisky. I’d drag my body through a week of zero coffee and marinated in alcohol if it killed me.
“Um, the phone?” he asked, puzzled.
“Mmm.” I lowered my lids.
Dead Guy cleared his throat. “I’m not sure—”
“Never mind.” I reached an arm over the side of the bed, searching for the offending phone, reaching farther and farther until the inevitable happened. I tumbled out of bed to land with a thud on the floor.
“Are you okay?” Dead Guy looked concerned.
Ignoring him, I snatched up my phone. “What?”
“Just checking in.” Amanda’s voice was as welcome as a hoohaa waxing on a full moon.
“You’re checking in at four-thirty in the morning?” I laid on the floor and stared up at the ceiling, admiring a particularly creative cobweb dangling from the light fixture.
“It’s six, and you know it. I call the same time every day.”
Yeah, you do. “To make sure I’m not dead,” I grumbled. I hit a button on the phone to hang up, but it’s entirely possible I’d called the pizza delivery place... it wouldn’t be the first time. Heaving a sigh, I rolled to my side and dragged myself to my hands and knees then, using the side of the bed for leverage, to my feet.
I padded toward the bathroom, pointing a finger in the general vicinity of the dead guy. “Wait here.” The trouble with ghosts was they had no sense of boundaries. Just because you could walk through walls doesn’t mean you should. Especially when I was in the bathroom.
I sat on the toilet and listened to the scratching coming from the other side of the door. Rolling my eyes, I yelled, “Thor. Bandit. Quit it.” Honestly, once they knew I was awake, the pair of them hounded me until I’d filled their kibble bowls. Only Thor, my big—emphasis on big—gray teddy bear of a cat, was on a diet. Which meant Bandit, my recently acquired raccoon, was also on rations. Not that Bandit seemed to mind. But Thor? The downside of having a talking cat was that you got to listen to their complaining. A lot.
After washing my hands and splashing water on my face, I flung open the door. The two furry critters greeted me with overexaggerated enthusiasm before bounding ahead, leading the way downstairs amidst compliments on how fresh and beautiful I looked this morning. All lies in hopes of getting more kibble out of me.
Dead Guy followed my entourage and now stood in my open plan living room. I cocked my head and studied him. He wore jeans, a nondescript T-shirt, loafers without socks, and a dusting of a five o’clock shadow on his square jaw. He looked vaguely familiar.
“Now?” he asked hopefully.
My shoulders slumped. I really needed caffeine for this. “Fine. Go ahead.” I waved at him to continue.
“I think I’m dead,” he said. Oh God, I was woken from my slumber for this? I did my best not to roll my eyes or call him Captain Obvious, for while he was new at being a ghost, I was all too familiar with them. My best friend Ben was a ghost, and I’d been seeing and talking with him for almost a year. I glanced around for any sign of Ben, but he’d yet to return from his nocturnal wanderings. Since he didn’t need sleep, Ben amused himself by visiting insomniacs and watching Netflix or, preferably, the shopping channel with his blissfully unaware companions.
“I’m afraid so.” Turning, I grabbed a glass and shoved it under the faucet. Opening the top drawer, I rummaged for pain killers, but the junk drawer failed to deliver, and I slammed the glass down a little harder than intended, the contents sloshing over the rim.
Dead Guy looked startled, and I forced myself to drag in a calming breath. It wasn’t his fault I was hungover. Or caffeine-free. Why he was standing in my living room, though, was something I was curious about.
“Why are you here?”
“I was coming to see you.” He looked toward the front of the house then back at me.
“Do you ghosts get a handbook or something? How did you even know I can see and talk to ghosts?”
He blinked. “I didn’t. I was coming to see you when I…”
The penny dropped. “Oh! You mean, you were literally coming here to see me when you died?”
“Yes.”
I pointed toward the front door. “You’re here? On the other side of that door?”
“Yes.”
Just to be sure, I took a step toward said door, pointing. “This door?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He opened his mouth, hesitated, then snapped it closed, a frown pulling his brow low. “It’s the darndest thing. I can’t remember. I know I was coming to see you. I just don’t know why.”
“Right.” It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Death amnesia. It had happened to Ben, only he hadn’t known he was dead, not to begin with. But once we’d worked it out, it had been left to me to solve the mystery of his murder because his memory of the event was buried so deep in his subconscious he couldn’t access it. Not entirely surprising if you’d died a violent death.
“Since I don’t know you, I’m assuming you were coming here to hire me.” It wasn’t an odd assumption since I ran Delaney Investigations, the private investigator business I’d inherited from Ben.
“Maybe, yeah. But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.”
Right. Because he was dead, and according to him, he’d died at my front door. No wonder he’d found me. His ghost hadn’t had far to travel. With a sigh, I trudged down the hallway to the front of the house and flung open the door. I was unprepared for the glare of sunlight and raised my arm to shield my eyes. No dead body on my doorstep. Stepping outside, I didn’t have to go far before I found the dead guy face down on my lawn. The cause of death was apparent thanks to the great hulking knife sticking out of his back.
Reaching for my phone, I realized I was standing on my lawn in what I’d slept in, which was a tank and panties, and my phone was upstairs in my bedroom where I’d left it. Swiveling on my heel, I hurried back inside, thankful the house next door was vacant. No prying eyes of neighbors to catch me in my underwear. I snorted. Like they would worry about that over a dead body on my front lawn.
“If I were caffeinated, this wouldn’t have happened,” I said to myself, taking the stairs two at a time. Dead Guy followed.
“Me getting killed?”
“What? No. That was inevitable. No, I mean I wouldn’t have gone outside in my underwear, nor would I have left my phone upstairs. Rookie mistakes. I’m usually more alert than this.”
“Right. So, have a coffee then.”
“If only I could.” I sighed. It sounded suspiciously like a moan. Scooping up my bra from the floor, I rummaged in a drawer for a clean T-shirt and pair of jeans and disappeared into the bathroom to finish dressing.
“Tell me what you remember,” I called out to Dead Guy. “I’m guessing you’ve been out there all night?” I hadn’t touched the body. Didn’t need to, to know he was dead, but also, ewww. I may talk to ghosts, but that didn’t mean I went around touching corpses.
His voice was muffled through the door. “It was late.”
“How late?”
“After midnight.” There was a sheepish tone to his voice, as if he’d realized knocking on my door in the middle of the night hadn’t been the wisest of moves. Only he’d never knocked. Someone had stabbed him in the back before he’d reached my door. “I know, I know,” he continued, “I should’ve waited until morning. I really wish I had now.”
“I bet,” I muttered, running my fingers through my messy bob and splashing water on my face again, rubbing at the smeared mascara under my eyes that I hadn’t noticed on my first trip to the bathroom. Satisfied I wasn’t going to look any better than I did right now, I flung open the door and eyeballed Dead Guy.
“What was so urgent you had to hire my services in the middle of the night?” Crossing to the night table, I picked up my phone and dialed while Dead Guy filled me in. I was hoping repeating the question would jog his memory.
“Something important,” was his ambiguous reply. How very helpful. Not.
“You don’t say.” I tried one of those raised-eyebrow looks—the ones that let the person you’re talking to know you’re incredulous at their suggestion. Only I had yet to master individual control of my eyebrows, so instead, both brows shot into my hairline, and my look was one of surprise rather than disdain.
He shrugged. “It was a long shot.”
The call connected. “Firefly Bay Police Department.”
“Hi. This is Audrey Fitzgerald. I’m calling to report a murder.”
CHAPTER TWO
“Is this a joke?” I eyed the takeout coffee cup Detective Kade Galloway held out to me.
“No. It’s hot chocolate.” He grinned, and my insides melted. Captain Cowboy Hot Pants was my main squeeze, and given my severe distrust of the police, that was saying something. But Galloway had not only wormed his way into my heart, he’d also been involved in the secret investigation bringing down the corrupt cops in the Firefly Bay PD. Now the bad guys were gone, and we had new blood in town, all on the right side of the law. I hoped.
“Tell me what happened,” Galloway invited, standing with his arm around my shoulders while we both watched the activity unfolding on my front lawn.
“The official story is I came out this morning and found him like this.” I waved an arm, almost spilling my hot chocolate.
“And the unofficial story?”
I glanced around to make sure we wouldn’t be overheard then said out of the corner of my mouth, “Unofficially, his ghost told me he was out here.”
“He’s here now?” Galloway glanced around as if he could see Dead Guy’s ghost for himself. I nodded.
“Have you asked him what happened?”
I snapped my head around in irritation. Duh.
Galloway barked out a laugh. “Of course you have. Well?”
“He doesn’t know. He was coming to see me. Wanted to hire me, I assume, only he can’t remember why. The next thing you know, he’s got a knife in his back, and he’s walking through walls.”
“Identification says Dean Ward,” Officer Noah Walsh called out from where he was kneeling next to the body holding Dead Guy's wallet in his hand.
“Ward?” Galloway arched a brow. “Is he from that brewery?”
Officer Walsh rifled through the wallet, pulling out a business card. “Yep. Owns Moustache Craft Ales.”
“That’s the craft brewery on Bayview Street,” Galloway said.
“Great burgers,” I added.
“What’s happened? Is that Dean Ward?” Ben appeared out of nowhere, making me jump.
“You know him?” I asked.
“Know of him,” Ben said, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning. Yellow crime scene tape wrapped around bushes and trees, boots trampled across garden beds.
“Don’t worry.” I nudged him with my elbow, which achieved nothing other than making me stagger. “I’ll fix the garden.”
“It’s not that.” His frown deepened. “I’m more concerned with why he’s here. On our front lawn.”
“He was coming to see me. For a case.”
Ben snorted. “Really? What?”
“Dunno. He has a case of ghost amnesia.” A headache pounded at my temples, and I pinched the bridge of my nose. Turning to Galloway, I asked, “Do you have any Tylenol?”
“Probably got some in my car. Headache?”
“Mmmm.”
“Hold tight. I’ll go grab them. Just be careful, Audrey, okay? You’re talking to Ben… out loud.” He reminded me my ghost-speaking abilities were meant to be secret. Usually, I was all over it, but my concentration was slipping. I really needed a coffee. Instead, I took a sip of hot chocolate and tried not to pull a face. It wasn’t that I didn’t like hot chocolate. I did. Mixed with coffee. Okay, fine, it’s called café mocha, and I had a fierce craving for the brew.
“Delaney?” Dean caught sight of Ben and hurried over.
“What are you doing here, Ward?” Ben’s voice had taken on a low, menacing tone, and I glanced at him in surprise. Did the two of them have history? Remembering Galloway’s warning about being seen talking to ghosts, I pulled out my phone and pretended to take a call.
“Ben? What’s going on?” I asked.
“He,” Ben pointed an accusing finger at Dean, “is bad news. And he’s brought trouble to your door, Fitz.”
Dean snorted. “That’s rich coming from you, a bent cop.”
I sucked in a startled breath before leaping to Ben’s defense. “He was not corrupt. He was framed.” Heat washed up my face and burned, along with my temper.
“Easy, Fitz.” But Ben wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were glued to Dean, and his stance told me he was ready to spring into action at any moment, his weight on the balls of his feet, his hands clenched into fists. Could ghosts fight? I had an awful feeling I was about to find out.
“Ditto,” I muttered. “Fill me in here. Why is he bad news?”
“Word around town is he has dealings with Arlie Roberts.”
I sucked in a startled breath. Arlie Roberts was bad news. He and a gang of thugs ran the shady side of Firefly Bay. You didn’t want to mess with them, and up until now, they’d always managed to avoid the long arm of the law. But with the cops most likely to accept bribes gone, Arlie Roberts and his mates were up a similar creek to mine. Were they the reason Dean was killed?
“Is this true?” I asked Dean, who wouldn’t meet my eyes, instead keeping his glare on Ben.
“See?” Ben sneered, jerking his head. “He doesn’t deny it. What was it, Ward? What were you fencing for Arlie? Money laundering? Cheap produce? Or was it the booze?”
Dean stiffened. “I brew my own ale, thank you very much!”
“Touch a nerve, did I?” Ben glanced at me. “I’d wager he was substituting some, if not all, of his self-brewed ales for cheap knock-off booze.”
I didn’t get a chance to reply. Dean launched himself at Ben, and the two of them went down in a tangle of limbs and fists, grunting and rolling across the lawn as both tried to get the upper hand. Sipping my hot chocolate, I watched until Galloway returned, holding out two painkillers.
“What’s happening?” he asked, attempting to follow my gaze.
“Ben is sitting on Dean.” Tossing the pills into my mouth, I gulped a mouthful of hot chocolate, choking and spluttering before I finally managed to swallow them.
“What do you mean, sitting on him?”
