Be My Ghost

Book 1: Haunted Haven Mystery

by Carol J. Perry

Genres: Paranormal Romance; Ghost; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Maureen Doherty and her golden retriever Finn have taken possession of a charming old inn—only to discover that it's already possessed by tenants whose lease on life already ran out . . .



Maureen's career as a sportswear buyer hits a snag just before Halloween, when the department store declares bankruptcy. Meanwhile, Finn's lost his way as a guide dog after flunking his test for being too friendly and easily distracted. Sadly, only one of them can earn unemployment, so Maureen's facing a winter of discontent in Boston—when she realizes she can't afford her apartment.



Salvation comes when she receives a mysterious inheritance: an inn in Haven, Florida. A quaint, scenic town on the Gulf of Mexico hidden away from the theme parks, Maureen believes it's a good place to make a fresh start with a new business venture. But she gets more than she bargained for when she finds a dead body on her property—and meets some of the inn's everlasting tenants in the form of ghosts who offer their otherworldly talents in order to help her solve the mystery . . .

Release date: August 31, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Maureen Doherty stood at the window of her corner office on the top floor of Boston’s William G. Bartlett Building. “Rain,” she muttered. “Pouring down rain. Just what I need.” With a sigh, she turned away from the cold, gray outdoor vista and faced her almost-empty desk where a brown corrugated box stood open.

She reached for the framed photo of her parents, Nancy and Frank Doherty, posed in front of their San Diego condo. They smiled up at her. Into the box they went, followed by half-a-dozen brass plaques engraved with her name and “Independent Retailers Ready-to-Wear Buyer of the Year.” With the closing of the venerable Bartlett’s of Boston department store there’d be no more of those plaques in her future. A framed document certifying her degree in Fashion Merchandising, and a well-worn copy of Mastering Fashion Styling were next, along with a manilla folder of tax information. It was only September, so she didn’t need to worry about taxes on past income just yet. The immediate problem was going to be future income.

The closing of Bartlett’s hadn’t come as a shock to Maureen. The shutting down of brick-and-mortar stores was happening all over the country. Even the big guys, like Sears and the great independents like Filene’s, were gone, so it was no wonder that a family-owned department store like this one was doomed to fail, even after eighty-five years at the same address. It was a good bet that the market for women’s sportswear buyers was dwindling too, even for an almost-thirty-six-year-old frequent “buyer of the year.”

With another sigh, a “New York, New York” paperweight, a souvenir of one of many buying trips to the city, went into the box, followed by a dusty jade plant rooted in Maureen’s maternal grandmother’s willowware flowerpot. She made a final check of the desk drawers, pulling them out and closing them one at a time, just in case something had been left behind.

Not much to show for ten years in the same job, she thought, brushing back a stray lock of short blond hair and blinking back tears.

“Maureen? May I come in?” William G. Bartlett III stood in the doorway.

She wiped a hand across blue eyes and smiled at the gray-haired older man. He looked tired. “Of course, Bill. Just cleaning up a few loose ends.”

“I understand. This hasn’t been easy for any of us.” He shook his head. “We held on as long as we could, didn’t we? I want you to know how much I appreciate your staying on until the last minute.” His smile was wry. “Nothing left to sell now except the store fixtures. The moving crew is having a ball sweeping up all the coins that have been under those old wooden counters since nineteen thirty-six. Probably quite a lot of silver down there.”

A bit awkwardly, he handed Maureen a long envelope. “This’ll help a little to tide you over for a while. Any plans for the future yet? You know I’ll give you a glowing reference, whatever you chose to do next.”

“Thanks so much, Bill. No plans yet, but I’ll keep in touch,” Tears threatening again, she slipped the envelope into her handbag and tucked the carton under her arm. Feeling more than a little sorry for herself because of the “no plans” reality, she pushed the last empty bottom desk drawer closed with her foot—a bit harder than necessary. “It’s been a good ten years. I’ll miss the old place.”

“We all will,” he said, and held the door open for her. A coin rolled slowly across the carpeted floor, stopping at Maureen’s feet. He bent and picked it up. “A nineteen-eighty-three Bermuda nickel. Must have been under your desk.”

Had she really kicked the drawer that hard? She felt a flush of embarrassment.

He turned the coin over. “The queen of England on one side and an angelfish on the other, but no silver.” He handed it to her. “Can’t be worth much, but here, keep it for good luck.”

“I will.” Sliding it into her pocket, she gave a wave with her free hand, stepped into the top-floor elevator, and pushed the DOWN button.

Leaving by the employees’ ground level exit, she gave a reluctant backward glance and stepped out into the nearly empty parking lot at the rear of the building. It was early afternoon and the rain, by then wind whipped, fell in slanting, stinging sheets. Balancing the carton on the rear fender of a five-year-old green Subaru Forester, she unlocked the back hatch, shoved the box inside, climbed into the driver’s seat, and headed for home.

The drive to Saugus on US 1 took Maureen only about half an hour on a good day and she usually enjoyed the ride. This was not a good day, weather-wise or otherwise. She turned on the radio. More rain and cooler temperatures were forecast. She switched to the easy-listening station. Cher’s “Believe” was a much better choice.

Maureen had sent a few resumés around recently, but so far nothing had materialized. She hadn’t looked inside the envelope Bill had handed her but was pretty sure there’d be enough there to tide her over for a month or so. Then what? She could head out to California and visit the parents for a little while. But then what? She’d have to find someplace she could afford and it had to be someplace that accepted dogs. Sort of big dogs. She smiled, thinking of Finn.

“Poor Finn. He’s out of work too.” She’d acquired the beautiful, lovable golden retriever for way less than he was worth from a guide dog instructor she’d met at yoga class. “He’s too friendly. Too easily distracted,” the woman had told her. “Nice pet, but a dismal failure as a guide dog.”

Cher crooned something about being sad about leaving. That fit. Maureen was sad to be leaving Bartlett’s. No doubt about it. She slowed the Subaru to a stop at a red light and Cher almost whispered that it was time to move on. Nodding agreement with the lyric, she turned onto Lincoln Avenue, passed Kane’s Donuts, where a grinning jack-o’-lantern proclaimed the fast-approaching October holiday. Maureen stuck her tongue out at the pumpkin. This isn’t a good time to be out of work in Massachusetts with winter coming on, she told herself. High taxes, high rents, and high heating bills.

She turned into the alley behind the two-story house where a cozy second-floor apartment had been her home for a decade. It was a good thing she hadn’t signed the new lease Mrs. Hennessey had stuck under her door. The current lease would expire at the end of the month and now there was no way she’d be able to afford even the modest rent on this place. She’d be able to collect unemployment insurance for a while, she had a 401(k), and there was a small savings account. No need to panic.

Not yet.

She drove into her usual parking space, stepped out onto rain-soaked ground, opened the hatch, picked up the box, and hurried to the back door. Wiping her feet several times on the rough fiber mat, she went inside, opened the metal mailbox with her name on it, pulled out a few envelopes and a couple of catalogs, and stuffed them into the cardboard box. Starting up the stairway, she heard Finn’s welcoming “woof.”

“I’m coming, boy.” She spoke softly, sliding the box along the wooden bannister, hoping the landlady wouldn’t poke her head out of her kitchen door and invite Maureen in for “a cup of coffee and a little chat.” Mrs. Hennessey loved chatting and knew that the old store was closing—everybody knew that. However, they’d never spoken about the possibility of Maureen moving. This didn’t seem to be the right moment for that conversation.

Maureen unlocked the apartment, slipped inside, and pulled the door closed. She put the box on the kitchen table and knelt to accept Finn’s joyous welcoming tail-wagging, doggy kisses, and happy “woofs.” “Looks like we’re both out of work now, boy,” she whispered. “But don’t you worry. We’ll be okay, you and me—I think. I guess. Somehow.” The golden nudged her leg. “Dinnertime?”

She poured his favorite kibble into his bowl and while he happily ate, she began removing the remaining items from the box, spreading them on the table. “If I was going to stay here I’d make a nice wall arrangement with the plaques and my diploma,” she told Finn, “but why mess up the wall with nail holes when I’m going to be moving anyway?” She put the photo of her parents on top of a bookcase, and put the jade plant into the sink for a good soaking.

Last of all she pulled out the envelopes and the colorful catalogs, then pushed them aside. “I can’t afford anything from Bas Bleu or J. Peterman,” she told the dog, “and I’m sure the rest are just bills.” She gave the pile a casual once-over. “See? Utilities, Spectrum, T-Mobile, Discover card—whoops. What’s this?”

The cream-colored envelope bore a Florida postmark and a distinctive script return address. Jackson, Nathan and Peters, Attorneys at Law. A letter from a law firm. Not good. “The way things are going for us lately, Finn,” she said, “it’s bound to be bad news.” She laid the letter facedown on the table. “Now I’m almost afraid to look at the one Bill Bartlett gave us.”

She opened a box of Lean Cuisine and popped it into the microwave, glancing every few seconds at the two envelopes. When she’d finished her dinner, she put a decaf pod into the Keurig machine. “Well, Finn, shall we open the mail and see what our future holds? Financially and legally?”

Finn gave an affirmative-sounding “woof.” He put his head in her lap. “Which one should we open first?” The dog looked up at her with soft brown eyes.

“I know. We’ll toss a coin. I’ve got one right here.” She pulled the Bermuda nickel from her pocket. “The queen, we open the one from Bartlett’s; the fish, the letter from the lawyer. Here goes.”

The coin landed with a clink on the table. “Heads. Okay. Money first.” She pulled open the unsealed flap of the white envelope. The amount of the check enclosed was a surprise. Her low whistle made Finn’s ears perk up. “Five thousand dollars. This’ll help a lot with our future plans.” Finn tilted his head to one side. “Yeah, I know.” She ruffled his fur. “We have no future plans.” She added two pink packets of artificial sweetener to the coffee, took a sip, then slit the second envelope open carefully—respectful of the 40 percent rag content with its graceful script designation, Lawrence Jackson, Attorney at Law—and withdrew a single sheet of paper.

On the first day Finn had come to live with her, Maureen had read aloud the list of instructions that had come along with him. He’d immediately sat at her feet, eyes focused on her face, ears alert, apparently enjoying every word. She’d soon developed the habit of reading to him often—from newspapers, magazines, advertising flyers, novels. He seemed to like them all. She didn’t receive many personal letters, though— her parents usually phoned or e-mailed—so this would be his first.

“ ‘Dear Ms. Doherty: In the matter of the estate of Penelope Josephine Gray, this is formal notice that Penelope Josephine Gray died on the last day of July past and that you are the apparent only heir to Penelope Josephine Gray’s estate, consisting of certain property in Haven, Florida. Please contact this office at your earliest convenience for further information regarding the administration of the decedent’s estate.”

The letter was signed by Lawrence R. Jackson, Administrator of the Estate.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

Finn blinked. “Woof,” he said.

“ ‘Certain property,’ ” she quoted the letter. “That could mean anything. A farm. A swamp. A mansion. And who is Penelope Josephine Gray?” Finn lay down and closed his eyes. Maureen read the letter again, this time to herself. The fancy letterhead included telephone, fax, and e-mail address.

What if it was a scam? What if Lawrence R. Jackson was an identity thief? Maureen nearly laughed out loud at that one. Who would want her identity? A single woman with no job and pretty darned close to no home.

She opened her laptop and typed in “Jackson, Nathan and Peters, Attorneys at Law, Haven, Florida.”

“The website looks legit,” she told Finn. “They’ve been in business at the same address since the eighties. Not a very big building. Looks more like a house than an office. It says here they specialize in wills, trusts, estate planning, and family law. What do you think?”

“Woof,” Finn said.

“You’re right. I’ll call my folks. They probably know exactly who Penelope Josephine Gray is.”

Frank Doherty answered on the first ring. “Hello, sweetheart,” he said. “What’s going on?” She knew her parents were concerned about the loss of her job, and she’d tried hard to convince them that she wasn’t worried, that something would come up.

Maybe something had.

“Darndest thing.” She read the lawyer’s letter to him—by this time her mother was on the line too. “Do you two know who Penelope is?” Maureen asked. “Do we have some kind of family connection to her? Or to Haven, Florida?”

“Never heard of the lady,” he said. “You, Nancy?”

“Uh-uh. I don’t recognize her name. But I think we’ve all been to Haven. You’d just finished the eighth grade and we drove down to Florida. Remember, Maureen? It was right after we went to Walt Disney World. Nice little place. We went out on a fishing boat. You caught a fish.”

She remembered the fish. “I wanted you to cook it for dinner. We took it to a restaurant and they cooked it for us. So that was Haven?”

“I’m quite sure it was,” her mother said. “Cute town. Quiet. Near the beach. A little house there would be nice. I say you take them up on the offer. Whoever she was, Penelope what’s-her-name has done you a favor. Maybe she was a customer at Bartlett’s and you sold her the prettiest dress she ever owned. Maybe she saw your name somewhere and liked the sound of it. People do strange things. You’ll figure it out. Meanwhile, why turn down a trip to Florida, with winter coming on?”

“I’ll give the lawyer a call,” Maureen promised. “If it sounds okay, I think I’ll do it.”

Frank Doherty gave instructions for her to keep them informed and asked if she needed anything, as he always did.

She answered that she was fine, thank you, and assured him that she didn’t need anything, as she always did.

“Oh, Maureen?” Her mother’s voice was hopeful.

“Yes, Mom?”

“Maybe you’ll meet someone in Haven.”

Maureen smiled at the familiar admonition, said goodbye and immediately googled Penelope Josephine Gray.

An obituary from the Tampa Bay Times dated in July was headed with a black-and-white photo of an attractive white-haired woman:


Everything sounded legit so far.

Maureen tapped Lawrence R. Jackson’s number into her phone.

“Jackson, Nathan, and Peters. How may I direct your call?”

“This is Maureen Doherty. May I speak with Lawrence Jackson please? He’s expecting my call.”

“Please hold.”

“Larry Jackson speaking.” The voice was pleasant, businesslike, with a slight southern inflection.

“Good afternoon. This is Maureen Doherty. I have a letter from your office regarding an estate?”

Short pause. A sound of paper shuffling. “Oh yes, Ms. Doherty. The Penelope Josephine Gray estate. Good to hear from you. Will you be coming to Florida soon to claim your property?”

“I don’t know. This is all quite a surprise to me,” she said, looking at Finn and rolling her eyes. What kind of goof would drop everything and take off for Florida based on a one-page letter from a total stranger? She kept her tone level, courteous. “Can you give me some information about my, um, my property? What sort of property is it? And who is—was—Penelope Josephine Gray? The name isn’t familiar to me at all.”

“Oh, really? We were not aware of that. I’d assumed you were a relative. Ms. Gray was the proprietor of the Haven House Inn until her recent passing. It’s a—um—historic property. Built back in the early nineteen-hundreds, I believe.” His voice had turned jovial. “It appears that it’s all yours now, Ms. Doherty. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Maureen frowned. “You called this place, this inn, a historic property. Is it actually an operating inn?”

“Oh yes indeed. It’s been operating for over a hundred years. Haven used to be a very popular west coast Florida beach resort town, but”—there was an audible sigh—“then the theme parks came and the big highways passed us by. Things change.” His voice brightened. “But there are still folks who come to stay at Haven House every year, and it’s a full-time residence for some others. There’s even a small restaurant in the building.”

That was encouraging. If she owned an inn, even a century-old one, where people actually lived and other people were regular visitors, it meant she’d have a place to stay—rent-free—at least for the time being. She made a quick decision—without even tossing the coin. “All right then, Mr. Jackson. If you can give me directions, my dog and I will be on our way within a day or so. I presume pets are welcome?”

“Yes indeed. The late Ms. Gray had several cats,” he said. “The inn has a website. Just google the Haven House Inn. You can get an idea of what it looks like and there are directions on the site. I’ll call the inn and tell them to expect you soon.”

“Okay. Anything else I need to know?”

“I don’t think so. Oh yes.” Jovial voice again. “Did I mention that it’s rumored to be haunted?”

Maureen laughed. “I guess most of the old hotels in the country make that claim. I know they do around New England. Seems to be good for business. Don’t worry about it. I don’t believe in ghosts. Do you?”

“Me? Ghosts? Of course not. Well then, Ms. Doherty, when you get settled, call me and we’ll deal with the necessary paperwork.”

Maureen agreed, said goodbye, and raced for her laptop. Sure enough, there was the inn—her inn—and it didn’t look too bad. There was a picture of the front of the place—lots of windows and more than a few rocking chairs on a wide porch that seemed to wrap around the building—some shots of bedrooms, some with four-poster beds and some with lots of white wicker, one with a fireplace, and a photo showing the entrance to the restaurant with the name ELIZABETH’S over the door.

“Who’s Elizabeth?” she wondered aloud. Finn had no answer but nuzzled her knee. “Hey, we don’t even know who Penelope Josephine Gray is, do we?” She squinted at the screen. If she’d actually been to Haven when she was a kid, she didn’t remember ever seeing Haven House. She remembered that fish, though. It had been her first one and she’d been so excited. Smiling at the memory, she scratched behind Finn’s ears as she checked the maps on the inn’s website. As Larry Jackson had said, there were several sets of directions, including one that looked like an almost-straight shot from Boston over to I-95 and on down to Florida’s Gulf Coast.

“Let’s start packing, Finn,” she said. “We’re going to Florida.”

There was a little more to it than just packing, but within a few days Maureen had told Mrs. Hennessey the good news about her inheritance, which provided a perfect reason for moving. She’d picked up a map from Triple-A just in case her GPS didn’t work, and packed the Subaru’s rear compartment and back seat with several suitcases full of clothes—she was, after all, in the fashion business—her computer, laptop, and printer, along with the few things that seemed worth transporting all the way to Florida, including the contents of the box she’d brought home from Bartlett’s, a couple of lamps, and quite a few books. One of the stock boys from the store was happy to load all the rest of her furniture into his truck for his own first apartment. Some of her fall and all of her winter clothes were distributed among a group of girlfriends who’d gathered for a wine-and-pizza goodbye party. Each of them promised faithfully to come to Florida real soon and to stay at the Haven House Inn.

It was three-thirty on Wednesday morning when Maureen shared a final cup of coffee and a tearful goodbye with Mrs. Hennessey. She strapped Finn into the passenger seat, stopped at Kane’s (they opened early for fishermen) for three cinnamon-sugar doughnuts and another coffee, filled the gas tank at the Shell station, and they were on their way. The rain had stopped, but the skies were mouse colored and overcast. Finn looked back and forth from the doughnut box on the console to Maureen’s face.

“What?” she said. “We have a long drive ahead of us. I’ll need the sugar. For energy. You wouldn’t want me to fall asleep at the wheel, would you?” She could have sworn he rolled those big brown eyes. Mindful of maintaining her size 10 figure—she’d packed a couple of really cute bathing suits—she promised herself that whenever, wherever, they stopped for lunch she’d have a salad. She sipped her coffee, helped herself to a doughnut, and headed for the Southeast Expressway and Route I-95.

Maureen, with the aid of Garman, Triple-A, and a toss of her new lucky coin, had selected the famous South of the Border motel—just south of the North Carolina border—as her halfway point. It was pet friendly and she’d wanted to stop there ever since that eighth-grade trip to Walt Disney World had taken them past the place. Nancy and Frank Doherty had jointly vetoed the idea. “Tacky,” Nancy had declared.

At seven o’clock in the evening, after sufficient highway rest station breaks for Finn and herself, the promised salad for lunch, and two more doughnuts for energy, Maureen saw the huge sombrero marking the entrance to the place. She drove slowly past the Ferris wheel, the merry-go-round, the giant pink flamingoes. The old childhood thrill came back. It was everything she’d imagined it might be—wonderfully, deliciously tacky. Check-in was quick and efficie. . .