“VICTORIA LAURIE IS THE QUEEN OF PARANORMAL MYSTERIES.”
—BookReview.com
Praise for the New York Times Bestselling Ghost Hunter Mystery Series
“A quickly paced and cleverly constructed mystery . . . Laurie’s character work is, as always, first-rate. M.J.’s one of my very favorite cozy heroines; endearingly goofy, insanely brave, and loyal to a fault, she injects both humor and heart into a story.”
—The Season
“A series that combines suspenseful tension with humor, romance, and mystery.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
“Filled with laugh-out-loud moments and nail-biting, hair-raising tension, this fast-paced, action-packed ghost story will keep readers hooked from beginning to end.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Paranormal mystery fans, look no further.”
—SciFiChick.com
“Fabulously entertaining. . . . [Laurie] has a genuine talent for creating unique spirits with compelling origin stories and then using those creations to scare . . . her characters and her readers alike.”
—The Maine Suspect
“Paranormal thrills and chills . . . [and] a healthy dose of fun and romance.”
—Once Upon a Romance
“Without question, this is one of the most bewitching and flat-out-fun series available today!”
—Romantic Times
“A lighthearted humorous haunted hotel horror thriller kept focused by ‘graveyard’ serious M.J.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“Reminiscent of Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s bunch, Laurie’s enthusiastic, punchy ghost busters make this paranormal series one teens can also enjoy.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Ms. Laurie has penned a fabulous read and packed it with ghost-hunting action at its best. With a chilling mystery, a danger-filled investigation, a bit of romance, and a wonderful dose of humor, there’s little chance that readers will be able to set this book down.”
—Darque Reviews
“Victoria Laurie continues to excite and entertain with her ideas and characters and also inform John Q. Public in matters metaphysical. Cannot wait for the next from Ms. Laurie!”
—AuthorsDen.com
“Perhaps what makes this story and this series so good is that Victoria Laurie is actually a professional medium. She knows what she’s talking about, and she sure can write a good story.”
—A Bibliophile’s Bookshelf
“A great, fast-paced, addicting read.”
—Enchanting Reviews
“A great story.”
—MyShelf.com
“Entertaining. . . . With witty dialogue, adventurous mystery, and laugh-out-loud humor, this is a novel that you can curl up with [and] get lost in.”
—Nocturne Romance Reads
Praise for the Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye Mysteries
“Victoria Laurie has crafted a fantastic tale in this latest Psychic Eye Mystery. There are few things in life that upset Abby Cooper, but ghosts and her parents feature high on her list . . . giving the reader a few real frights and a lot of laughs.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Fabulous. . . . Fans will highly praise this fine ghostly murder mystery.”
—The Best Reviews
“A great new series . . . plenty of action.”
—Midwest Book Review
The Ghost Hunter Mystery Series
What’s a Ghoul to Do?
Demons Are a Ghoul’s Best Friend
Ghouls Just Haunt to Have Fun
Ghouls Gone Wild
Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls
Ghoul Interrupted
What a Ghoul Wants
The Ghoul Next Door
The Psychic Eye Mystery Series
Abby Cooper, Psychic Eye
Better Read Than Dead
A Vision of Murder
Killer Insight
Crime Seen
Death Perception
Doom with a View
A Glimpse of Evil
Vision Impossible
Lethal Outlook
Deadly Forecast
Fatal Fortune
OBSIDIAN
Published by the Penguin Group
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New York, New York 10014
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penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC
First Printing, January 2015
Copyright © Victoria Laurie, 2015
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
ISBN 978-0-698-15795-8
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For Ruth Margret Laurie
Love you, Gram
Contents
Praise for Victoria Laurie
Also by Victoria Laurie
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
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
Acknowledgments
Deepest thanks go out to my editor, Sandra Harding, for all of her hard work, patience, perceptive advice, patience, wise observations, patience, lovely praise, and especially her patience. I totally pinkie-swear that someday, SOMEday I will actually turn in something on time. Pinkie. Swear. (But maybe don’t hold me to that.)
More thanks go to my fantabulous agent, Jim McCarthy, who ROCKS and whom I adores. The longer I work with Jim, the more convinced I am that he’s just the greatest thing since chocolate sprinkles on a triple scoop of peanut butter–chocolate ice cream in a waffle cone. And, if you knew how much I love sprinkles on a triple scoop of peanut butter–chocolate ice cream in a waffle cone, you’d tooootally get how much I adores him.
I also want to take a moment to mention how much I count on and totally appreciate my copy editor, Michele Alpern. I’ve never, ever had a better copy editor, who so totally gets my style and gently corrects all the little (sometimes big . . . doozy!) imperfections in my manuscripts. Thank you, Michele, for always being so awesome, for always suggesting just the right alternative, and for catching all of those echoes. I always sweat it until I hear you’re avai
lable to copyedit my latest book, and sometimes I know you work extra hard just to fit me in. I hope you know how very much I appreciate you.
More thanks go to my awesome, awesome team at New American Library, namely Danielle Dill, Claire Zion, and Sharon Gamboa. You guys are so great. Truly.
Last, allow me to take a moment to thank those very special friends and loved ones who support me in so many ways and are the best cheerleaders on the planet! Sandy Upham, my sister, who gets me in ways that no one else in the world ever will. For that understanding alone I’d give you the moon if you wished for it . . . and if I could throw a lasso that far.
Brian Gorzynski, whom I love more than I can ever possibly say. You’re one of the very best people I’ve ever known, and I will love you with all of my heart to the very end of my days. Katie Coppedge, Leanne Tierney, and Karen Ditmars, aka Team Lo . . . how would I ever survive without you amazing ladies in my life? I love each of you so, so much. Thank you for always having my back. Know that I will always have yours in return. And, of course the rest of my peeps, Steve McGrory, Mike and Matt Morrill, Nicole Gray, Jennifer Melkonian, Catherine Ong Kane, Drue Rowean, Nora, Bob, and Mike Brosseau, Sally Woods, John Kwaitkowski, Matt McDougal, Dean James, Anne Kimbol, McKenna Jordan, Hilary Laurie, Shannon Anderson, Thomas Robinson, Juliet Blackwell, Sophie Littelfield, Nicole Peeler, Gigi Pandian, Maryelizabeth Hart, Terry Gilman, Martha Bushko, and Suzanne Parsons.
Chapter 1
“This is where you grew up?” my boyfriend, Heath, asked me as our van came to a stop.
I stared up at the large plantation home of my childhood and tried to see it through Heath’s eyes. The stately six-bedroom, five-bath home sat atop a large hill that I used to roll down when I was little. I had found such joy in rolling down that hill. And the grand, ancient sixty-foot oak tree that dominated the far right side of the yard, where I’d had a swing that I used to ride for hours. And the long wraparound porch where I’d spent lazy summer days cuddled up with a good book and glass after glass of pink lemonade.
Of course, all of that was before my mother died. Before all the joy went right out of my life and right out of that house.
Looking up at the dark redbrick manor with black shutters and a gleaming white porch, I could see that not much had changed about the house in thirty years. It still looked as grand, charming, and pristine as ever, but inside I could feel the ghosts that haunted the old Southern home. Literally.
“Are we there yet?” Gil yawned from the backseat. Gilley is my BFF. He’s been my best friend for over twenty years, so he knows my history well.
“We’re here,” Heath said, arching his back and stretching. It’d been a long drive from Boston to the southern Georgia city of Valdosta. “I didn’t know this place was gonna be so . . . big.”
Gil sat up and leaned forward. “M.J. didn’t tell you?” he asked, like I wasn’t in the van. “Her daddy’s a very wealthy man.”
I scowled. Gil made it sound like that was something to be proud of. But since my mother’s death, Daddy had always put his work before me, so I hardly thought it a positive thing. Plus, he’d never once offered to help me out in all those years Gil and I had struggled to make ends meet in Boston.
“Yeah, he’d have to be to afford this place,” Heath said. My gaze shifted to him. He looked intimidated, and I thought I knew why. Heath came from far humbler—but perhaps more honorable—circumstances.
“Hey,” I said, reaching for his hand. “It’s his money, not mine.”
Heath tore his eyes away from the house. “Yeah, but, Em, I mean . . . look at this place.”
“It’s just a house,” I said, leaning in to give him a quick peck before getting out of the van.
As we walked from the van toward the house, the front porch door opened and out stepped Daddy. My breath caught in surprise at the sight of him. I barely recognized the man standing there.
My father had always been a tall and imposing figure. Well over six feet, he’d been a big barrel of a man who’d gone gray, then silver prematurely, and whose countenance had always appeared to be tired and overworked. The man on the porch, whom I hadn’t seen in several years, was still tall and imposing, but he’d trimmed down by at least forty pounds—pounds he’d always carried around his middle and which he really had needed to lose. His hair was also darker, but it suited him and made him look ten years younger, and his face, always set in a deep frown, was actually lifted into an expression I hadn’t seen him wear since I was ten. The man actually looked happy.
“You okay?” Heath whispered, and I realized he’d taken up my hand.
“Yeah,” I said, shaking my head a little. “He just looks . . .”
“Amazing,” Gil said on the other side of me. “Lord, M.J., is that really Montgomery Holliday?”
“Hey there, Mary Jane,” my father called from the porch with a wave. “I was expectin’ you a little later. Y’all must’ve made good time.”
“Hey, Daddy,” I replied as we started up the walk toward the stairs. “We did make good time.”
My father nodded and adopted something halfway between a grimace and a smile, but I couldn’t really fault him for it. If you don’t ever smile even once in twenty years, I expect you’d be out of practice.
The porch door opened again and out stepped a lovely-looking woman perhaps in her late fifties or early sixties. She had a regal quality about her with short-cropped and perfectly coiffed blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a trim figure. Her smile was brilliant and contagious and she clapped her hands at the sight of us. “Ooo!” she exclaimed. “Monty, is this your daughter?”
I had climbed the steps and now stood in front of Daddy and the woman who must be his new fiancée, Christine Bigelow. “This is her, dear,” Daddy said, stepping forward to open up his arms to me.
For a moment I just stood there confused. Daddy hadn’t hugged me since the day my mother died. In fact, that was perhaps the last time he’d ever touched me tenderly, so this open display of affection was throwing me a little and I didn’t know how to react.
Next to me I heard Gil clear his throat, then push me with his hand a little, and I sort of took two awkward steps forward and Daddy hugged me with three neat pats to the back before letting go. He continued to wear that strange half smile, half grimace.
And then I was wrapped up in another hug from Christine. She squeezed me tight and added another “Ooo!” Then she stepped back and held me at arm’s length. “Mary Jane, I have heard so many wonderful things about you! Your father simply raves about how smart and amazing his little girl is!”
“You have?” I said. “He does?” I wasn’t trying to be a brat—I was actually really surprised that Daddy would say anything even remotely kind on my behalf. He’d spent decades letting everyone else know what a disappointment I was to him.
“Well, of course!” she said, and then her bright eyes turned to the two men at my side. “Now, don’t tell me. Let me guess,” she said to them. Pointing to Heath, she said, “You must be Heath Whitefeather, Mary Jane’s boyfriend, and you,” she said next, pointing to Gil, “must be Gilley Gillespie, Mary Jane’s best friend—am I right?”
“What gave it away?” Gil said, and I wanted to roll my eyes. Gilley was actually wearing mascara and blush today, along with blue nail polish. He loved flaunting his flamboyant side in my conservative Southern Baptist father’s face.
“Your mama described her handsome son to a T,” Christine told him slyly. The tactic worked; Gil blushed and I knew she’d just claimed another ally.
“It’s very nice to meet you, ma’am,” Heath said, extending his hand to her.
Christine laughed lightly and shook her head, stepping forward to hug Heath. “Oh, none of that formal stuff for family!” she said.
I hate to admit it, but the lovely warmth and charm of the woman had an effect on me. I liked her
. A lot. And I couldn’t understand what she’d first seen in my father, but looking at the dramatic change in him, I had to be grateful, because it was a world of difference.
Once she’d had her fill of hugs, Christine took up my arm and Gilley’s and said, “Now! Let’s all step inside and have ourselves a proper lunch, shall we?”
We began to follow her and Daddy inside when a pickup truck came barreling up the drive at an alarming rate of speed, honking its horn to get our attention. Daddy’s posture and countenance changed in a second and he stepped forward to the edge of the porch, ready to handle whatever came next.
Heath moved over to stand next to Daddy, and I could tell that my father approved of the move and perhaps even of Heath in that moment. The truck came to a stop and out jumped a man in jeans, a plaid shirt, a stained cowboy hat, and work boots. “Mrs. Bigelow!” he called urgently.
“Clay,” my father said, his voice full of the authority that used to send me scurrying.
Clay removed his hat and nodded to my father. He looked out of breath. “Mr. Holliday, sorry to trouble you, but we’ve had another situation at the work site.”
Daddy moved down two steps toward Clay, and Heath followed him. Next to me Christine stood rigid, biting her lip as if she knew the news was bad.
“It’s another accident,” Clay said.
“What happened?” Daddy demanded.
“The scaffolding in the ballroom gave way, sir. Two of my men were sent to the hospital.”
“Oh, no!” Christine exclaimed. “Clay, are they badly injured?”
Clay clenched and unclenched his hat. “Not real bad, ma’am, but bad enough. Boone’s got a busted ankle, and Darryl might have a broken arm.”
Christine’s posture relaxed a fraction. “Oh, that’s dreadful,” she said. “But I’m so grateful it wasn’t worse! Monty, after lunch we should go straight to the hospital to see the men. And of course I’ll cover their medical expenses.”
“Now just hold on here,” my father interjected. “Clay, that scaffolding is your responsibility. If it wasn’t properly put together, Christine ain’t gonna be responsible for no medical expenses.”