Cupid’s taking aim at Charlene Morris’s historic Salem B&B, which is brimming with models for a contentious photo shoot, but his arrow goes astray when someone is murdered on Valentine’s Day…
A full house is nothing new to Charlene and her ghostly friend, Dr. Jack Strathmore, but this Valentine’s Day, their Salem, Massachusetts inn isn’t filled with romantic couples. Instead, every room is booked by formerly famous photographer, Dane Stallone, for a Cupid-themed calendar he hopes will jumpstart his sagging career. Though Charlene’s hands are full with a dozen gorgeous models, Dane is the only diva—pitching fits, making unreasonable demands, and generally being a mood killer . . . until a real killer strikes and puts the whole shoot on ice.
With more suspects than a jumbo box of chocolates, Charlene, Jack, and Detective Sam Holden race to find the one person filled with murderous intent . . .
Praise for Mrs. Morris and the Wolfman
“A tasty tale for those who like their mysteries with a dash of paranormal fantasy.” —Kirkus Reviews
Release date:
December 24, 2024
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
368
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
“I despise Dane Stallone,” Dr. Jack Strathmore announced. Charlene Morris and her spectral housemate were in her private suite at Charlene’s Bed and Breakfast, forming a defensive plan of action.
The large mansion burst at the seams with a dozen gorgeous models shooting a twelve-month calendar of cupids. Not the cute, chubby kind but the artistic sort, as Dane attempted to revise the black-and-white cupid photography that had launched him to fame twenty years before. “Didn’t know Dane when he lived in Salem,” Jack continued, “but I’m fairly certain I’d have despised him then too.”
“That’s harsh,” Charlene said, though she could understand. She tended to give her guests the benefit of the doubt, but Dane’s superior attitude grated on her nerves as well. “They’ve only been here since noon. What shall we do? I refuse to lose Minnie over Dane’s demands.”
Her housekeeper, Minnie Johnson, slammed cupboards in the kitchen, the closed door between them barely muffling the noise. Normally guests left for excursions at some point during their stay, but that wasn’t Dane’s intent. Check-in had been at noon, and by two, he’d had the models, mostly nude, arrayed around the barren oak behind the house. February in Salem was cold and gray. Dreary. The oppressive mood, Dane had said, was perfect.
“We should charge him a location fee,” Minnie had muttered to Charlene. “All twelve months for the calendar shot here at the B and B, without a thought of asking for permission.”
Charlene had responded to her housekeeper with an empathetic smile before excusing herself to her suite to do paperwork, but she really wanted to chat with Jack. Minnie didn’t know about Jack, and so far, only Charlene and Silva, her Persian cat, could see the ghost.
“Nothing fattening or bloating on the menu,” Dane had instructed Minnie when Charlene and Minnie had welcomed them all earlier.
Minnie was renowned—as the five-star reviews on Charlene’s website showed!—for her creamy sauces and buttery dishes. Vacation for most people meant relaxing the diet to enjoy delicious treats, but not Dane. He’d requested bone broth and lean proteins that physically hurt Minnie to prepare when she was capable of more tantalizing fare.
Charlene moved the curtain in her suite aside to watch Dane’s progress. Jack simply appeared outside on the stoop. It had been five months since he’d told her he was in love with her, five months since she and Sam had sat hip to hip on the back step, five months when she’d feared never seeing Jack again.
Her ghost had stayed away for over a week before his return. She’d been so relieved when she’d left her bedroom and Jack was in his favorite armchair, that she’d fallen into her love seat. By mutual unspoken agreement, the episode remained in the past.
Charlene and Sam had grown closer, but any sleepovers happened at his place. And oh, were those nights glorious. His thorough kisses, his silky mustache, his firm muscles . . . Sam’s tall frame was sexier to her than the half-naked models currently arranged over branches and the wooden rope swing.
“Cin, dammit, I need you to extend that leg; give me a straight line.” Cin was Cinda Washington, garbed in strategic red silk over the bits that would be illegal to show in public. Auburn hair yanked back in a bun, large blue eyes, lean like a dancer. She stretched her toes and arched her foot, the leg as plumb as a ruler without a single feminine curve.
Charlene longed to give the young woman one of Minnie’s fresh-from-the-oven croissants with ham and cheese.
Jack popped back into the living room by the love seat with the snap of cool air that always accompanied his presence. “I feel sorry for the models. They say one must suffer for one’s art, but this is extreme. I wonder how much they get paid?”
“Good question, and also a reminder of why they’re here. Business. I’m looking forward to happy hour so we can question our guests—subtly of course.”
“Of course,” Jack agreed. Dark hair with silver at the temples fell across his forehead, his eyes a brilliant turquoise blue that she’d only seen one other person with in her life . . . his son. She’d met the young man when she’d bought the mansion and employed him as a handyman named Nick Jones. Jack’s first college love had kept Nick’s birth a secret until he turned eighteen with catastrophic consequences. Hard to believe that several years had gone by. She hoped, for Jack’s sake, that Nick was getting the mental help he needed while serving his time in jail. Another subject they didn’t discuss.
Charlene’s cell phone rang, and Avery’s sweet face lit up the screen. When they’d first met, the teen’s hair had been orange, then pink, and was now a light brown grown almost to her waist. Joy filled her, followed by trepidation. “Oh, I hope she’s not coming home this weekend.”
Before Charlene could answer, the ringing stopped.
Avery Shriver was in her first year of college and wanted to be a detective like Sam Holden. In Salem, which made Charlene and Jack very happy. Sam too. They were all proud of Avery and how far she’d come from humble foster care beginnings. Charlene loved Avery unconditionally, with all her heart.
Jack watched out for Avery like a guardian angel behind the scenes, his affection for her as fierce. Avery was dating a local young man named Seth Gamble, who attended community college while working at the Salem movie theater.
A scratching sounded at the door between the kitchen and her suite. “Silva,” Jack said.
Charlene hadn’t been a cat person before her stowaway from Chicago two and a half years ago but couldn’t imagine her life without the silver Persian. Now that so much time had passed since her escape from grief after the death of her soul mate Jared, she appreciated the array of love that had entered her life so unexpectedly.
A teenager, a cat, and a ghost. And yes, Sam . . . that was love too. Not the same as it was with her husband. This was something different. Not less than—but . . . different.
Sam understood her past and didn’t press to rush things. He didn’t believe in ghosts, though she kept trying for him to open up to the possibility, but no, as a detective, he demanded facts that could be seen and verified.
Charlene opened the door and Silva’s tail waved from side to side. Minnie looked over from the kitchen sink. She’d dyed her short curls a golden blond and silver-framed glasses perched on her nose.
“Don’t let Silva fool you,” Minnie said, turning off the faucet. “She’s been fed.” She dried her hands on a dish towel, her manner still annoyed.
Charlene and Jack both laughed; not that Minnie could hear their ghost, but Silva blinked with round golden eyes. The pair were friends despite Silva’s paws going right through Jack’s manifested body.
“I’ve tossed together a vegetable tray,” Minnie said. “And it’s in the fridge. I made a ranch-style dip with light mayo.” She shrugged. “We don’t have bone broth, but I’ll pick some up before I come in tomorrow morning.”
“You are a trooper,” Charlene said. “Dane should have given us meal restrictions before he arrived.”
“Tell me how he ended up with us?” Minnie asked with a straight face. “Nobody else would take him?”
“Dane found the B and B online, looking for an older home to use for his photos. Not that I understood what he meant.” Charlene frowned. “He was very vague.”
“I bet,” Jack said.
“He’d mentioned that he was a photographer from the area,” Charlene continued. “And maybe I was a bit proud of the work we’ve done here on the house in my email.”
“Did he tell you it was all models?” Minnie asked. “Or that he’d planned a calendar?”
“No.” Twelve beautiful people with more luggage than the mermaid folks who’d been here in September, and Dane, with his camera and photography equipment. “It doesn’t matter now. They are guests and Dane’s paid for the rooms. It’s not our business what he wants from his employees—so long as it’s legal.”
Charlene and Minnie spent the next fifteen minutes prepping for happy hour and had just finished when Dane and his dozen models entered the house through the front door. He had on a lightweight jacket with flexible material, camera in hand. The rest of the troops were in swimwear or lingerie.
“Can we get some coffee?” Dane asked. The others nodded and blew on their fingers or stomped their feet to get warm.
“Certainly!” Charlene said. “Happy hour is set up in the living room—follow the warmth from the fireplace. Coffee is in the orange carafe. White carafes have hot water for tea or hot chocolate packets.”
Rather than go upstairs to put on clothes, the group strode into the living room, where most gravitated toward the flames while the others stopped at the sideboard for hot drinks.
“We have red or white wine from a local winery,” Charlene offered, entering with Dane. Would they even care? There was no getting around the calorie content.
Dane shook his head. “Not yet. We have work to do still.” The photographer was tall, with ebony hair and moss-green eyes. His mustache and goatee were pencil thin, bordering on the devilish. None of the other men had facial hair but were clean shaven . . . all twelve models were waxed, without a hair to be seen anywhere on their bodies.
“No calories in coffee or tea is what he means to say,” Francesca Munez sniped. The Spanish beauty chose a mug from the sideboard.
“Truth!” Arjun Bhatia said, warming his hands at the fire. He was from India, and she found his accent lyrical.
Charlene was good with names and faces and had gotten even better since becoming a hostess with a revolving clientele. This was the first time her guests had come from all over the globe, and she loved it.
Cinda poured Dane a hot coffee, tension from the photo shoot electric between them.
Egyptian Fatima Sayed had deep brown eyes, raven hair, and a figure that rocked a skimpy bikini. She coyly shook her hips whenever Dane was watching, as he often did. Emi Nakamura called Okinawa, Japan, home. The petite model had straight black hair and blunt bangs across her pale brow. Her red silk slip stopped at her upper thigh.
Blanche Hollander, from Paris, France, had a languid demeanor. Her golden hair reached her shoulder in waves—no bangs. The one-piece had the sides cut out and was quite dangerous if she bent over wrong.
Sienna Porter, African American, had a home in New York City. Her cheekbones were dramatic on a striking face.
Francesca filled her mug with hot water. “Limón?” she asked, her nose scrunched at the sliced lemon. Her shortie lingerie was mostly sheer.
“That’s all we have. If you prefer lime, I can buy some in the morning,” Minnie assured her.
“Lime for me, too, por favor,” Pedro Cruz said. From Mexico City, he had thick lashes around blue-gray eyes, his dark hair in loose curls. “It’s good for the digestion.” He placed his hand to his muscled abdomen, the snug red boxer briefs leaving nothing to the imagination.
“I’ll be sure to stock up,” Minnie said. She blinked at the gorgeous young man, seemingly enthralled by him.
“Can’t blame her,” Jack said with a chuckle. “Pedro is very handsome, which is saying something in this particular crowd.”
Charlene turned from the sideboard toward the fire and noted that red-haired Mason Cooke, from London in the UK, and Adam Russo from Italy, a true Roman, were similar in the breadth of their bare shoulders, both in red Speedos. Mason’s physique was much paler than Adam’s tan skin. Adam was the oldest of the crew at thirty-seven, though he didn’t look it.
Kai Chun, from South Korea, stood on the other side of the fireplace, so close Charlene worried he might fall into the flames. He was about five ten, with dyed silver-blue hair. Thomas Watts, a Haitian who also lived in New York City, helped himself to a coffee with no sugar or cream.
“Can we get some fat-free creamer?” Thomas asked. He and Kai both had opted for the boxer briefs.
Minnie sighed. “I’ll add it to my grocery list.”
Thomas walked off without a word of thanks. Rude! Charlene reminded herself that they were guests and it was usually her joy to make sure that everyone was happy and considered this space their home away from home. To that end, she and Minnie had devised a color-coded anchor system for each suite.
Dane occupied the second-floor blue chamber overlooking the oak tree by himself. Charlene didn’t know how he’d decided to split the other rooms, but Cinda and Fatima shared the queen-size bed in the gold bedroom, with a single rollaway for Arjun; Sienna and Emi shared the third bed in the slightly bigger pink room, with Pedro and Mason each in cots. In the fourth bedroom with the green anchor, Francesca and Blanche shared and Kai slept on a cot. The rollaways had luxurious mattresses and down bedding that were as comfortable as the beds. Adam and Thomas were each in singles on the third floor. They were smaller with a bathroom to share but had the bonus of being private.
There were actually three bedrooms on the upper floor, but the third belonged to Avery, and renting it out to guests was nonnegotiable.
“Finish your drinks and then I want some more pictures,” Dane instructed. He placed his camera with care on a side table.
Fatima noted the clock on the wall. None of the models carried their phones because they had no place to put them. “We’ve only been inside for ten minutes. I need at least thirty to warm up, my love. Perhaps a bathroom break as well,” she said, shimmying her hips as she flirted with Dane.
The others nodded. Charlene wondered if Fatima was always the spokeswoman.
“Have you all worked together before?” Charlene asked. Her innate curiosity was the bane of her existence, and Sam’s, when it tossed her in the middle of things.
Fatima glanced around the room. “Not at once like this, but in smaller groups. We’ve done some of our best work together.”
“Models are notorious divas,” Dane said in a serious tone, “but I won’t have any of that nonsense this week. We are on a time restriction, and I want all twelve months of the calendar shot and in the can by Valentine’s Day.”
“Five days!” Kai exclaimed as he rubbed his hands together near the flames.
“If we manage to get that done, Charlene’s made reservations at a seafood restaurant where you can gorge yourselves to death for all I care.” Dane scowled. “After this photo shoot, I will cut my ties with all of you and retire.”
Some of the models gasped, and there were some curse words too. Charlene bristled on their behalf. When she’d made the reservations at Cod and Capers, she hadn’t realized it would be a maybe. She’d asked Sharon Turnberry, the manager there, to pull out all the stops, which was a big ask on a romantic holiday.
Emi sank to an armchair, her large eyes welling with tears of hurt. “Retire?”
Francesca put her hand on Emi’s shoulder, facing Dane. “First I’ve heard of this retirement plan. Isn’t this supposed to be your return to fame and riches?”
“Using us as cupids, your muses,” Cinda said. “You insisted we participate, Dane. You know I had other plans.”
Mason snickered. “You realized it was a lost cause, mate?”
“With models as old and washed up as yourselves,” Dane said, “I’ll be lucky to get a return on my investment.”
Kai stepped away from the fireplace. “I risked a lot to be in the United States for you. You can’t just retire.”
Dane held up his palm in a dismissive manner. “Every model in this room owes me, and that is why you’re here, especially you, Kai, since I gave you a second chance.”
“It’s certainly not the paltry money,” Sienna remarked. “A thousand bucks for five days of work is a joke in this industry. Some of us earn that in a single photo shoot.”
Dane’s lip curled, his thin mustache quivering. “Sienna darling, you have never made a thousand a day. Not even in your prime, which we all know you’re past by a good decade.”
Sienna’s eyes glittered, but she lifted her chin. The woman was beauty personified, without a wrinkle or sag anywhere. Charlene guessed she’d be thirty tops. Was that considered too old to model?
“No need to be cruel.” Adam’s rich voice held the hint of an Italian accent. His skin was taut over sculpted muscle.
“Too close to home, Adam?” Dane asked. “You were with me on my first photography tour of Europe and had just turned eighteen. Very, very long ago.”
Adam didn’t back down but met Dane’s gaze with confidence. “I’m here to honor my fool’s bargain. Godspeed on your retirement. I have a vineyard to manage for the second half of my life on this earth.”
Dane’s jaw clenched . . . was he upset that he hadn’t scored a barbed hit? “We’ll see about that.” He shifted toward Blanche, and the Frenchwoman trembled.
Charlene had never seen a woman with such a lovely complexion—ivory with a hint of peach. Her eyes were golden-brown, like her hair. She gripped a mug of hot tea and averted her gaze.
“Blanche, for God’s sake grow a spine. You’ll find some rich old sap to marry you.” Dane brushed her cheek. “But you’d better not wait too long.” The cruel photographer strode toward the fireplace and the models melted back, as if not wanting to be near him.
“Are we all going to be in each photo?” Arjun asked. He lacked the confidence of Adam. “Your instructions were vague.”
Charlene realized that might just be Dane’s style. Not easy to be part of a team when the team leader hadn’t shared clear directions and expected people to read his mind.
Dane crossed his arms and studied his crew, who had at least stopped shivering. “I’m waiting for the muse to guide me.” His gaze bounced from Cinda to the others in the room.
The models all nodded.
Jack scoffed. “Muse? Please. The man is hoping to lob a home run but doesn’t have a clue how to resurrect his success. He stinks of desperation.”
Emi timidly raised her hand. “Dane. The photos you’d done were in black and white, with pops of color. Will you bring that trend back?”
“You, Emi, are not my muse. That’s a ridiculous idea.” Dane stroked his goatee. “It’s in the past and can’t be done again. I need something fresh, something new.”
Charlene had gotten her college degree in marketing, and this challenge spoke to her skillset. The goal for the client was always to capitalize on what pleased the consumer. “Perhaps something similar enough to remind the public of that success without copying it exactly.”
Dane straightened and arched his brow, focusing on Charlene. “Keep talking.”
Jack appeared next to Dane in a blast of chilled essence and Dane jumped, rubbing his arms.
Charlene smiled at the defense of her ghost from Dane’s arrogance.
“I used to be in marketing,” Charlene said. “If my company was brought this . . . situation . . . we’d need to know what the end goal was—for example, are you looking for a legacy project with this calendar before you retire and money isn’t a factor?”
Thomas burst out laughing but stopped when he noticed Dane’s death glare. “Sorry.” His accent was a mix of Haitian and New York. “Thought it was understood by the ghastly fee he’s paying us that he’s got no extra funds.”
Dane stepped toward Thomas with bunched shoulders.
“Thomas was just kidding.” Adam, playing peacemaker, joined Thomas. The men had their backs to the fireplace.
“Dane!” Cinda called from her stool by the sideboard. The auburn beauty spoke in a smoky voice. “Why not hear Charlene out? The idea has merit.”
Dane collected himself, smoothed his dark hair back from his forehead, and focused on Charlene. “You were saying?”
“Why not something similar to the original concept? It’s been some time since that success, and it could reach a new market. If you wait long enough, trends come back in style.” Charlene placed her palm over her chest as she chuckled. “Even wide-legged jeans.”
Cinda and Sienna laughed.
“I’m not from Salem,” Charlene continued, “and I haven’t seen your work, Dane, so maybe you could show me your portfolio, and then I’d be able to offer specific suggestions.”
“Don’t help the weasel,” Jack said.
Pedro chomped on a carrot stick, and the sound echoed in the silent room as they waited for Dane’s decision.
At last, Dane relented. “Take a break, people. Eat, drink—visit the restroom,” he gave Fatima a chin heft of disdain, “while I speak with Charlene.”
The models, released from Dane’s choke hold, broke off to get small plates of raw vegetables, depleting the carrots, cucumbers, peppers, and zucchini. Minnie’s veg tray had been a work of art. They avoided the fluffy rolls or sliced cheese but drained the hot water carafe to make zero-calorie tea.
“I’ll get more vegetables,” Minnie said. “Will you eat any type of bread?”
“Rice crackers,” Pedro said. “Picante. Spicy is the best. Do you have those?”
“No, but I’ll stock up on them tomorrow,” Minnie said. “I’ll add them to my list with the limes and the bone broth.”
“You are una señora muy amable,” Pedro said, winking at Minnie.
Minnie melted and hurried to the kitchen for more hot water.
“Charlene!” Dane went to the foyer and pulled out his cell phone. “You think you can help me, really?”
She followed the photographer. Jack was right—he had an air of desperation that negated his good looks. “Marketing was my job for a long time when I lived in Chicago.”
“What happened? Fired?”
“No.” Charlene scowled at him. She’d been hired right after graduation with glowing reviews. “My husband died in a tragic accident. I moved here to get away from the painful memories.”
“Oh.” Regret flashed across his moss-green eyes. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Charlene sensed Dane’s apology came because he feared she might not help him if he pushed his lack of manners too far. “I bought this place sight unseen and I’m in the black after two years—that means I’m successful.”
“Understood.” Dane smirked. “Not that my business can say the same.” He peered over her shoulder to the room of practically naked models. It was amazing what a person could get used to after the initial shock to the system. “If this calendar fails to make a profit, I’ll be ruined in the industry. Though I told them it was my choice to retire, it was a lie. The social media trolls will ensure my demise.”
“My opinion of this guy has fallen even further,” Jack declared.
“What’s the priority?” Charlene hoped for clarity. He’d talked of his position in the industry and the desire for profit. Sometimes you had to choose. “Your reputation as a photographer or financial gain?”
“It’s both,” Dane said with frustration. “My cupid photographs led to sold-out gallery shows and a book contract, making me millions, which is what I now owe. Things are getting . . . uncomfortable. Can you help me save my business?” He rubbed his finger along her upper arm and spoke in a sultry manner. “I’ll give you an acknowledgment in the calendar credits.”
Charlene’s mouth dropped as her stomach clenched. What a worm!
“Everything okay, Charlene?” Minnie left the kitchen and, instead of veering into the living room, steppe. . .
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