The Ghost and the Mystery Writer Read online

  Walt smiled softly. “But you and I, we can’t actually have a future together, can we?”

  Licking her lips again, Danielle’s gaze fell briefly to the floor and then looked up to Walt’s blue eyes. “I’m sorry for what I did in the dream hop. It was foolish of me.”

  “Are you really sorry?” His voice was barely a whisper. “I’m not.”

  Blinking her eyes in an attempt to keep the tears at bay, she said, “I guess I’m not either. But I know it was foolish.”

  “Did you tell Lily?” Walt asked.

  “No. I didn’t tell her.”

  “Are you going to?”

  Danielle shook her head. “No. Never.”

  “Why? Do you regret it so much you’re ashamed?”

  Danielle smiled softly. “No. But I don’t really want to share it with anyone.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Steve Klein noticed his first gray hair on his thirtieth birthday. He immediately plucked it out. But then the second, third, and fourth quickly showed up, and he soon realized if he kept destroying the evidence of his progressing age, he would soon be bald. Before anyone else noticed the changing color of hair, he picked up a package of hair dye during a business trip to Portland. Purchasing the dye locally seemed too embarrassing, and he wasn’t about to tell his wife what he intended to do.

  What Steve didn’t realize was that if just the tiniest speck of solution splashed on the counter or on the floor, it would eventually darken. He hadn’t noticed the stray drops dribbled here and there over the counter, but his wife did when she came home that evening. By that time, he had gotten rid of the evidence—or so he thought.

  She had panicked at first, wondering if their house was suddenly developing mold or some other deadly fungus. He stood by silently and said nothing as she frantically washed down the bathroom.

  He didn’t keep his secret for long—his wife discovered the rest of the evidenced buried in the bottom of the trash can. If the neighbor’s dog hadn’t gotten out of his yard and decided to go rummaging through their trash, she might never have learned her husband had started coloring his hair.

  Mrs. Klein found it amusing and didn’t berate her husband for not saying anything while she freaked over imaginary mold. But she did enjoy inflicting an occasional sarcastic jab in his direction, reminding him he was no longer a young man. While she would prefer he let his hair gray naturally, she graciously purchased his next box of dye locally, sparing him the embarrassment. But she did lecture him on being more careful when applying the solution. That had been twenty-three years ago, and Mrs. Klein continued to keep her husband in hair dye. It was no longer a secret he colored his hair; everyone who knew him had already figured it out.

  Steve was just about to take a bite of his burger when he heard a woman’s voice say, “The Pier Café has better burgers.” He looked up and saw Carla hovering over his table. She glanced around and then hastily took a seat at Steve’s booth, sitting across from him. Carla scooted over the bench seat and dropped her purse in the empty space between her and the wall.

  “I thought you were working,” Steve asked before taking his bite.

  “If you thought that, then why are you here?” she asked.

  Steve set the burger on his plate and glanced around before looking back at Carla. “I think you know why. We already went over all that.”

  “Does it really matter now? Jolene Carmichael is dead,” Carla asked.

  “Can you say that any louder?” Steve hissed. Picking up the burger again, he bit into it and chewed angrily.

  “I don’t think anyone liked her anyway,” Carla said, her voice now lower than before.

  Steve shrugged in response and took a sip of his soda.

  Carla sent the server away when she showed up a moment later, telling her she was just stopping by to say hi to Steve and wouldn’t be ordering any food.

  Twirling a lock of her hair—recently dyed red with streaks of light blue—between the fingers of her right hand, Carla studied Steve as he finished his burger. “You know, according to the paper, Jolene wasn’t killed by a stranger.”

  “How do they know that? No one knows who killed her.” Steve popped a French fry in his mouth.

  “The killer—or killers—know.”

  Steve looked up into Carla’s face, noting the way she was staring at him. He ate another French fry. “Now you’re saying there was more than one? A gang of killers roaming the beach of Frederickport?”

  Carla shrugged and let go of the lock of hair she had been twisting. She reached across the table and helped herself to Steve’s glass of water and took a sip. “Well, whoever killed Jolene probably knew her, according to the newspaper. They took her rings and then dumped them off the end of the pier. What robber does that?”

  “Jolene knew how to rub people the wrong way.” Steve pushed his now empty plate to the edge of the table and picked up his napkin. He wiped his mouth and then tossed the used napkin onto his plate.

  “You didn’t like her,” Carla reminded him.

  “I don’t think we need to talk about that.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you?” Carla asked, her voice a whisper.

  “Bother me, how?”

  “She was brutally murdered. And we were right there.”

  “We were hardly right there. We were up on the pier in the restaurant; she was murdered below the pier.”

  “You know what I mean.” Carla shivered at the thought.

  “Actually, I don’t know what you mean,” Steve said sharply.

  “What if someone finds out? They might think we had something to do with it.”

  “Carla, why would someone find out? Have you said anything?”

  She shook her head while her right hand nervously fidgeted with the rim of Steve’s pilfered water glass. “I haven’t said anything to anyone—I promise.”

  “Which is exactly why I didn’t have lunch at Pier Café today.”

  Carla shrugged. “I’m not working today anyway. So it would have been okay.”

  Steve narrowed his eyes and studied her. “Why aren’t you working today, by the way?”

  “I’ve been working all those double shifts—and then with Jolene’s murder and all the questions the police have asked me…”

  “You were questioned again?”

  Looking up into Steve’s eyes, she shook her head. “No. I meant that one time. Still, it was nerve-racking. And with all the people showing up at the pier, trying to see the murder scene. It has just been too much. I got the afternoon off. I needed some time to myself.”

  With an expression devoid of emotion, he asked, “So why are you here?”

  She shrugged. “I saw you. I missed you.”

  “We talked about this.”

  “I know, but now with Jolene dead—”

  “Exactly. With Jolene dead, we have a reprieve.”

  “You have a reprieve; I have nothing.”

  Steve let out a sigh. “What do you want from me?” In the next moment, he felt the toe of Carla’s foot run up his leg, settling by his groin. It was obvious she had slipped off her shoe. She wiggled her toes.

  “Stop that!” Steve gasped, nervously glancing around the diner to see if anyone was watching.

  Slowly she slid her foot off his lap until it was no longer touching him. Carla laughed and then flashed Steve a pout. “What will it hurt? I’ll meet you at my place.”

  “I have to go back to work.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re the boss. Come on, Steve, one more time. I miss you.”

  Swallowing nervously, Steve picked up the napkin from his plate and wiped perspiration from his brow. “Fine. You go now. I’ll be there shortly. Leave the door unlocked. I don’t want one of your neighbors to hear me knocking.”

  Quickly slipping her shoe back on, Carla grabbed her handbag and slid out of her seat. “Thanks for the information, Steve,” Carla said, her voice louder than before. “I’ll have to stop at the bank and pick up that brochure you sugg
ested.” Turning from the table, she sashayed from the diner.

  Her traveling partner had fallen asleep just moments after takeoff. It had surprised Melony, but she was grateful. Aside from being exceedingly handsome, he seemed like a nice man, but she did not feel particularly social. An hour into the flight—and starting her third cocktail—she was beginning to feel mellow. Smiling, she glanced over to Chris and noticed he was waking up.

  Rubbing his eyes and sitting up, Chris glanced around. “Have I been sleeping long?” He unhooked his seatbelt and stretched, making himself more comfortable.

  “About an hour.” Melony sipped her drink.

  It wasn’t long before Chris was being served his own cocktail—a bloody Mary. “These always make me feel like I’m drinking something healthy.”

  Melony laughed. “What, the tomato juice as your vegetable for the day?”

  Chris grinned. “Something like that.”

  “I’m a purist. I prefer my vodka with nothing to get between me and my buzz. Plus, flying terrifies me.”

  Chris studied her for a moment. “You don’t look terrified.”

  She flashed him a silly smile. “I know. Vodka does that to me.”

  “Where in Oregon are you going, exactly?” Chris asked. “You never mentioned. Where’s your hometown?”

  She sipped her drink and then said, “A little beach town below Astoria called Frederickport. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

  Chris sat up abruptly and looked at Melony. “Frederickport? Seriously? That’s where I live!”

  “Nahh…” She waved her drink dismissively in his face. “I’d remember someone who looks like you.”

  “I’ve only lived there since Christmas,” Chris explained. “I bought a house in the north end of town.”

  “No kidding?” Melony cocked her head slightly and studied Chris. “Whatever attracted you to Frederickport? It’s a nice little village, but not a lot of work there unless you’re into the tourist thing.”

  Chris shrugged. “I stayed at Marlow House over Christmas—I don’t know if you’re familiar with that place.”

  “Sure, one of the first houses in town. I understand the new owner turned it into a bed and breakfast.”

  “That’s right. I came for Christmas and decided to stay. I basically work out of my home, so I can pretty much live anywhere.”

  “Nice. I wish I could do that.”

  “What do you do?” Chris asked.

  “I’m an attorney.” She finished her drink and waved to the steward, motioning for him to bring her another cocktail.

  “Impressive.” He sounded sincere.

  “Don’t be,” she said wearily. “Some major jerks in my line of work.”

  “Oh…sorry to hear that. But I’ve found every profession has its share of jerks.”

  Melony shrugged. In the next moment, the steward appeared and took Melony’s empty glass while giving her a fresh drink. When she and Chris were alone again, she said, “Marlow House, are the rooms nice there?”

  “Sure, really nice. And the breakfast is amazing.”

  “Hmmm…I guess there’s zero chance they have any vacancies.”

  “You thinking of staying there?” Chris asked.

  “I hadn’t—not until you mentioned it. The thing is, the more I think about staying at my mother’s house while I’m in town, the more I hate the idea.”

  “Yes, that can be hard when someone has just passed away—staying in their home.”

  “It’s the house I grew up in, but still, that doesn’t make me want to stay there. My mother moved from Frederickport after my father died. She took everything with her, didn’t want to sell her house in Oregon—didn’t want to rent it either. When she decided to move back, she sold all her furniture, figured it would be cheaper just to buy new stuff. So I’m fairly certain the only bed in that big old empty house is the one she’s been sleeping in, and I really don’t want to sleep in it.”

  “Then you should stay at Marlow House. They’re good people. And then you wouldn’t have to be alone.”

  “I don’t care about being alone,” she said with a shrug. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

  “I take it you’re not married?” Chris asked.

  Melony glanced down at her left hand—she wore no rings. “Separated.”

  “Sorry.”

  Melony shrugged again. “One of those jerk attorneys I told you about.”

  “Your ex-husband is also a lawyer?”

  “He’s not ex yet—but will be. But yeah, he is.” Eyeing Chris over her drink, she asked, “You ever been married?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Melony let out a sigh. “Marriage is overrated.”

  After a few moments of silence she said, “I imagine Marlow House probably doesn’t have any vacancies.”

  “I’m pretty sure it does. I’m friends with the owner, and we spoke on the phone yesterday morning. She mentioned she had some cancellations—they came down with the flu right when they were supposed to leave on their vacation. There’s a good chance you can get a room.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Peeking her head into the parlor, Danielle spied Walt lounging on the sofa and reading a book. “I’m going to check on Chris’s house. If you hear Hillary coming downstairs, do something with that book.”

  Looking over to Danielle, his feet propped on one arm of the sofa while he leaned against the opposing arm, Walt released hold of the book. It floated over his head. “Something like this?” He grinned.

  “Oh, funny, ha-ha.” She tried not to smile but found it impossible.

  The book floated back into Walt’s hands. “I promise I’ll behave.”

  “Thank you.” Danielle flashed Walt a smile and then turned back to the hall.

  “Danielle!” Walt called out.

  She turned to the open doorway and looked back into the parlor. “What?”

  “Be careful. Promise me.”

  “Careful?” Danielle frowned.

  “There’s a killer on the loose and Chris’s house is empty. A perfect place for someone to be holed up.”

  “I promise, Walt, I’ll be careful.”

  A few moments later, Danielle stepped out onto the front porch and was about to close the door behind her when she heard Hillary call out, “Yooohooo! Danielle!” Pausing, her hand still on the doorknob, Danielle looked into the house and watched as Hillary scurried toward her.

  “Did you need something?” Danielle asked when Hillary reached the doorway.

  “Not exactly,” Hillary said, slightly out of breath. “I noticed you going out the front door, not the kitchen door where you park your car, and I wondered if maybe you were going to take a walk.”

  “Actually, I was going to walk down to Chris’s house and check on it. I haven’t been down there for a few days.”

  “Would you mind if I went with you? I really need to get away from my typewriter and get some fresh air. A walk would be good for me, and I hate walking alone…especially now. Would you mind?”

  Since learning what Walt had read in Hillary’s room, she had been a little leery with her houseguest. Yet looking at her now, Hillary reminded Danielle a little of her own grandmother. She began to wonder if maybe the chief was correct. It had all been a bizarre coincidence.

  “I’d love to have the company,” Danielle said brightly, finding she actually meant it.

  “When is your friend Chris returning?” Hillary asked a few minutes later as they walked down the street.

  “I’m not really sure. He was in Chicago on business and then unexpectedly had to go to New York. Maybe a week or so.”

  “Now what does he do exactly? I asked Lily, but she didn’t seem to know.”

  Danielle’s eyes darted briefly to Hillary and then looked back down the street. “Umm…well…it’s sort of complicated.”

  “It’s very neighborly of you to keep an eye on his house for him while he’s away on business.”

  “Considering what
happened the other night, I suppose none of us can be too careful.”

  “Ahh yes, that poor woman’s murder.” Hillary shook her head while muttering a few tsk, tsk, tsks. “I know the police chief is a friend of yours, but I’m wondering if perhaps something like this is a bit out of his league.”

  Danielle stopped walking a moment and glanced over at Hillary. “What do you mean?”

  Hillary stopped walking and looked back at Danielle. “The questions he asked me. He wasn’t very thorough. I must say, if my detective was interviewing a potential witness, he would ask more questions. Sometimes a witness doesn’t even realize he’s seen something.”

  Danielle started walking again, Hillary by her side. “What didn’t he ask you?”

  “For one thing, he didn’t seem particularly concerned about what I saw when I was in the café. But what if the killer was in there? Maybe I happened to see someone watching her, following her out of the restaurant.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. But that’s hardly the point.”

  They were quiet for a few minutes. Danielle then asked, “How long have you been writing murder mysteries?”

  “Ten years now.”

  “Really? I was under the impression you’ve been writing longer than that.”

  “I have. You asked me about murder mysteries. I used to write romance. My books did fairly well, but then romance readers seemed to get younger while I was getting older, and my publisher began losing interest in me.” Hillary let out a sigh. “But to be honest, I was getting a trifle bored writing romance.”

  “You just shifted to murder mysteries? Your publisher was okay with that?”

  Hillary laughed. “No. My publisher wasn’t interested in giving me a shot in another genre, but my agent had faith in me, encouraged me, and eventually found me a new publisher willing to give me a chance.”

  “Nice. So you’re not self-published like so many authors today?”

  Hillary wrinkled her nose. “Certainly not. I’m a real author.”