If You've Got It, Haunt It

Book 1: Haunted Vintage Mystery

by Rose Pressey

Genres: Ghost; Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

When a Southern vintage fashionista meets a ghostly socialite, she goes rummaging for clues to catch a killer in this cozy mystery series debut.



Cookie Chanel has opened her own vintage clothing boutique in the charming town of Sugar Creek, Georgia. Always on the lookout for stylish second-hand steals, she attends the estate sale of deceased socialite Charlotte Meadows. But she gets a lot more than she bargained for when Charlotte's ghost appears before her—offering fashion advice and begging Cookie to find out who murdered her.



As the persistent poltergeist tags along and a possibly psychic pussycat moves into the shop, Cookie sorts through racks of suspects to see who may be hiding some skeletons in the closet. Do Cookie and Charlotte have a ghost of a chance of collaring a killer—or will Cookie's life be the next one hanging by a thread?

Release date: December 1, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

I remember distinctly what I was wearing the day I first came face-to-face with a ghost.

I collect garments for my vintage clothing boutique, It’s Vintage, Y’all. Raiding estate sales at the crack of dawn is one of the better ways to find hidden gems. My heart skips a beat every time I see someone wearing an authentic piece of vintage fashion—like the lady who came into my store yesterday in a fifties high-waist silk hoop skirt over a tiered crinoline, or the old photo I just posted on my blog of a rick-rack trimmed, fitted-waist sundress from the forties.

My blog shares the same name as my boutique. I started it right after the store opened and was shocked at how much traffic I received. I get comments and questions from across the nation— sometimes even around the world. I discuss current trends based on vintage clothing, any new hidden gems I discover, and celebrities I spot wearing vintage.

Some fashions don’t deserve to be called vintage though—like those awful polyester suits from the seventies. Those things should never see the light from the darkened corner of a closet ever again.

Not only do I sell vintage clothing, I always dress the part, making the effort to incorporate at least one vintage piece into my outfit every day. I feel more like myself when I’m connected to the past. Maybe that’s because my grandmother Pearl had encouraged me to chase my dreams. She was a grand Southern lady who always dressed to the nines and wore a wide-brimmed hat and white gloves in public.

I loved playing in her closet when I was growing up. Everyone remarked how much we looked alike with the same dark hair and brown eyes.

The first day I met a ghost, I was wearing a rayon-linen blend, mid-length Christian Dior, white pencil skirt with a tiny pink floral print and a kick pleat in the back seam. Thank goodness the pleat allowed me to walk normally and not look like a mermaid. I may only be five-foot-two, but I didn’t let that stop me from wearing pencil skirts. The skirt was the bee’s knees and I’d gotten it for a steal. I paired it with a fifties silk pink blouse, fitted at the waist with turned-up sleeves and a back-notched Peter Pan collar. The tiny buttons were delicately covered with floral-print fabric. I completed the outfit with pink platform cork-heeled wedge sandals that had a soft leather upper with crisscrossed pink straps. They weren’t vintage, but totally retro. My purse was a large pink envelope clutch. I’d seen almost the exact outfit in a photo of Jayne Mansfield from 1957.

I was going shopping at the estate sale of the late self-made businesswoman Charlotte Meadows. She’d made her money by buying small pieces of real estate when she was young. The town was all aflutter about her death, not surprising since not only had she passed under highly suspicious circumstances, she was also quite the celebrity around Sugar Creek. Hardly a piece of land in town existed that didn’t have her name attached to it in some way. She’d owned or partnered in businesses, land, and homes for miles around—as if she had been playing a real-life game of Monopoly.

According to the headline in the Sugar Creek Gazette, she’d died from asphyxiation, strangulation suspected. The thought sent a chill down my spine. Sugar Creek, Georgia, located in the southern part of the state, is a small town more famous for sweet tea and Southern charm than murder, so it was no wonder that her death had caused a stir.

I pulled my attention-grabbing red 1948 Buick convertible up in front of the huge house. Needless to say, most people in town knew me because of my car. The shiny chrome, red and tan leather interior, and tan top were designed to stand out in a crowd. I couldn’t own a vintage clothing store and not drive a classic set of wheels.

After shoving the gearshift into neutral and setting the parking brake, I paused to take in the view. Sunrise had brought the first faint colors of day. The entire property was surrounded by immaculately trimmed hedges and a large, ornately-carved fountain bubbled in front. The massive stone steps welcomed visitors to the double oak doors. The outside of the home was white brick with black shutters on the sides of simply too many windows to count. The circular driveway allowed visitors to pull right up to the door.

Entering the house, I was thrilled to see the inside was just as extravagant as the outside. A majestic Victorian staircase swept down to greet me as I walked across the marble floor in the foyer. Intricate moldings edged the ceiling.

A petite gray-haired woman stood sentinel in the entranceway. She acknowledged me with a large smile.

I reached out to shake her hand, surprised I didn’t recognize her face. Sugar Creek is a small place, and that’s putting it mildly. “My name is Cookie Chanel, from It’s Vintage, Y’all. I’m here for the clothing sale. Can you show me where to find it?”

My mother had named me Cassandra, but from an early age, my Granny called me Cookie because of her love for fashion and because it fit so well with Chanel. Of course, that name stuck and everyone knows me as Cookie.

The woman looked me up and down through her cat-eye glasses, then pointed to my right. “They’re really picking through that stuff in there. You’d better hurry if you want any good pieces.”

By the look of the house, I assumed it was all good stuff, though I did have a few items at the top of my wish list. It had taken me several years to train my eye to spot the difference between genuine vintage and knock-off retro. A strong knowledge of fabrics helped me, too. Different types had been invented in specific years.

My jaw just about hit the floor when I entered the living room. So many items were piled up that my eyes had a hard time taking it all in. Clothing, bags, shoes, jewelry, books, and trinkets covered the racks and metal folding tables used for the sale. It was like the time my parents had taken me to Disney World and I hadn’t known which ride to take first. Which rack to start with?

My wonder was tempered by the disappointment of finding the room explored by over a dozen people. Usually estate sales are kind of a niche event. Clawing through a dead person’s belongings is inherently creepy, no denying it. But in Charlotte Meadows’s case, I should have expected a crowd. Her magnificent home was famous in the region, and most people probably just wanted to catch a glimpse inside. The gruesome gossip surrounding her death only fueled the mass curiosity.

Sure, it was a beautiful home, but I was just after the clothing and accessories. Rumor had it that Charlotte—who’d been a fashionista in the truest sense of the word—owned a rare Chanel white felt chapeau adorned with a silk black flower pin. I’d have given up my entire collection of Trigère to get my hands on that hat. Other than that, I was keeping an open mind about what I expected to find. The secret was getting to the best stuff first, and it looked like I’d already failed.

I made my way through the crowd, stopping short when I neared the most enticing rack of clothing. A middle-aged woman stood next to a small table with her arms held stiff and straight down at her sides. Her ebony eyes sparked with frustration as she stared my way. Her gaze pinned me, holding me frozen in place.

She was impeccably dressed in a white Dior pantsuit, leopard print heels, and chunky gold jewelry. Her shiny, chin-length mahogany-colored hair looked as if she’d just left a salon. Her outfit must have cost a small fortune. I recognized those leopard print heels from last month’s Vogue cover.

Something about the woman was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her right away. Maybe she’d been in my shop. Judging by that outfit, I was sure she was after the best clothing, too. She must have known right away that I was serious competition. We seemed to be in a standoff. She positioned her body as if she was ready for a sprint at a track meet.

I glanced toward the racks of clothing, gauging the distance and devising a plan to run and grab. If I wasn’t quick I was going to get stuck with one of those aforementioned polyester pantsuits. More often than not, true vintage items weren’t at estate sales. The really valuable pieces were few and far between.

The woman stood her ground and our eyes met again. She knew what I was scheming. If she made a move, I’d cut her off at the pass. Maybe she was a shop owner, too, looking for merchandise just like me. She scowled and I wondered if she’d be a hair-puller. I’d narrowly missed being snatched bald in the past. I tried to remain ladylike at all times, but sometimes people made that a very difficult task.

Maybe I could disarm her with some good Southern manners. “Hello.” I smiled graciously. I’d act as though we weren’t opponents. Kill her with kindness.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

I glanced from her to the clothing and back again. “Looking through this clothing?”

Honestly, what did it look like I was doing? I’d spotted a lavender Yves Saint Laurent maxi dress from all the way across the room. If I could get it for the price I was thinking, I’d make enough profit to pay the utility bill this month. There was no way I’d let her have it, not when I’d seen it first.

“So you can see me. I knew it!” she said with excitement in her voice.

Oh, bless her heart, this lady was a few bricks short of a full load. Did she think she was invisible? I’d never have admitted it, but I was kind of relieved. A crazy person was easier to deal with than a rival vintage store owner who would know the real value of the clothes and fight me every step of the way.

“Yes, I can see you,” I said, sorting through the clothing on the rack. I shoved a Chanel number under one arm and gripped it with my elbow.

She studied the Jimmy Choos on her feet. “I’ve been having a bit of a problem talking to people for the last couple weeks.”

Oh dear. I had a serious job to do and this woman wanted to chit-chat over tea and cookies. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, pulling out a pale yellow cardigan sweater with gorgeous detailed beading all along the front bust. The sweater sported a delicate combination of white rice beads, longer silver tube beads, and faux pearls. It was love at first sight, but the woman was ruining the romance.

“No, you don’t understand.” She leaned in near to my face.

I backed away and gave her the most evil glare I could manage. When she didn’t step back, I glanced around to see if anyone was watching us. Okay, the truth was I looked around to see if anyone could help me escape in the event that this encounter escalated into violence. She’d obviously skipped her meds that morning.

She waved her hand in front of my face to capture my attention again. “I think I was murdered. No, let me rephrase that. I know I was murdered. I distinctly remember someone choking me.”

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled. It clearly called for withdrawal from the situation—Dior be damned. I’d have to signal for assistance from one of the helpers working the sale. I looked around in vain for a possible rescuer.

The woman didn’t seem to notice my actions because she continued talking. “Apparently, you are the only one who can see me. You’re the first one who’s made eye contact or spoken to me since it happened.”

I really hated to have the poor woman kicked out of the sale, but she was leaving me little choice. Maybe if I moved to a different rack she would leave me alone. I picked up the yellow sweater again and moved around her.

“I don’t like you looking at my clothes.” She reached for the sweater, but her hand went straight through the fabric.

I gasped and released my hold on the hanger. The sweater fluttered to the floor. Again, I scanned the room to see if anyone was watching our interaction, but the shoppers were wrapped up in bargain-hunting. No one was paying us the least bit of attention.

“How did you do that?” I whispered.

The woman scoffed. “Pick that up before it gets dirty. It’s a de la Renta!” She had such command in her voice that I did as I was told.

She hadn’t answered my question, so with a shaking voice, I asked again. “How did you do that?”

A red-haired woman in a dull gray dress was walking past as I spoke. She whipped around and looked at me. “I’m sorry? Were you speaking to me?”

“No, I was talking to her.” I pointed at the strange woman next to me.

The woman in gray looked in the direction of my pointing finger, then she craned her neck to look behind the racks of clothing. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see anyone.”

“You don’t see this woman standing next to me?” I pointed again.

She frowned as she shook her head. “No.”

Before I could say another word, she hurried away. I’d just received the same type of look that I’d been giving out for the last five minutes—the look that said You should be committed.

I’d been working a lot lately. Ever since I’d opened the shop and started my vintage clothing blog—it had become popular almost overnight—things had been a tad overwhelming, but I’d never thought the stress had reached hallucination level. Perhaps I needed to take a spa day . . . or ten. A vacation to a luxurious resort sounded like just the right medicine. The problem was I couldn’t afford it. I’d sunk my entire inheritance from my beloved granny into opening It’s Vintage, Y’all. The only vacation I could manage was a glass of sweet tea on my patio overlooking the shopping center parking lot.

I went back to the clothing. My plan hadn’t changed, mostly because I couldn’t come up with a better one. I’d act as if nothing was odd or out of place. If I did that, maybe it would be so.

“See, I told you that you were the only one who could see me,” the crazy woman said around a chuckle. “Aren’t you the gal who owns the vintage clothing shop? Cookie Chanel? You know, you look so much like your grandmother did at your age, it’s uncanny. You have the same dark hair and big brown eyes.”

I froze with my hand on a cream-colored Armani blouse. In that moment, it all came flooding back to me. When Charlotte Meadows had been murdered several weeks ago, I’d seen her picture in the paper. With a hollow feeling, I realized the woman in the picture was the same one standing next to me. She was Charlotte Meadows! This couldn’t be happening!

My heart pounded in my chest and sweat broke out on my forehead. I was having a panic attack, that was all. I’d take a few deep breaths, count to ten, and the situation would be over. If I ignored her, everything would be business as usual.

Still sweating, I sorted through the rest of the rack and moved on to the next one. Charlotte followed closely behind, invading my personal space like a tick stuck on a dog.

I pulled out a fifties beige Schiaparelli cashmere sweater with silk embroidery and beaded overlay. “Oh, you don’t want that sweater,” she said.

“I don’t?” I tried to avoid eye contact.

“No, you don’t. I ate some bad shrimp once while wearing it. Of course, I had it dry cleaned, but some stains never really come out.”

I rehung the offending item in a hurry and picked up a burgundy blazer.

“You don’t want that one either,” she said.

“More shrimp?” I asked.

“No. I met my ex-fiancé while wearing that one. It has bad vibes now.” She shivered.

“Then why did you keep it?” Despite my better instincts, I felt myself getting pulled into conversation.

She flashed me a look of incredulity. “For sentimental value of course.”

“Of course.” I rolled my eyes. “Are you going to comment on every piece of clothing here?”

She shrugged. “If need be, yes.”

I couldn’t believe I was talking to the woman. She couldn’t possibly be a real ghost. I’d watched plenty of ghost-hunting shows and viewed every paranormal movie I could lay my hands on. From what I’d seen, ghosts just didn’t start holding conversations with people. They lingered in corners as shadows or materialized as mists or knocked paintings off walls. When I was young, Granny gathered the cousins around the fireplace and told us ghost stories. She spoke of seeing haunts, but she’d never talked to one. If she had, she never told me about it. Granny’s stories had sparked my fascination with the paranormal.

The only people who talked to ghosts were psychics, right? Immediately, I thought of my friend Heather Sweet. She had been my best friend in high school, and she owned the occult shop next door to mine. Maybe she’d be able to talk with Charlotte Meadows. Regardless, the whole situation was completely insane.

I grabbed a few items at random and made my way toward the woman in charge of collecting money. I prayed that I hadn’t picked up anything in polyester or spandex in my haste to get out of there.

“I know this is crazy, but it’s real!” Charlotte exclaimed in irritation.

“I’m not listening to you,” I said over my shoulder.

“Why aren’t you paying attention to me? I know you can see me and I know you heard me.” She moved in front of me and I hurried around her.

“You were just talking to me a minute ago.” Charlotte walked beside me, matching my pace.

“Yeah, well that was before I decided I’d gone insane,” I whispered. “Now go away. See you later, alligator.”

“Like I said, I know this sounds crazy, but it’s real. How do you think I feel? I’m the one who’s been murdered. I’m the one who’s dead. I need you to find out who killed me.”

The woman collecting money frowned when she looked up to see me talking to myself. I gave her a tight smile and shoved a couple crumpled twenties into her hand before heading toward the door. In my hurry to get out of the house, I tripped on a rug halfway down the . . .