The Spirit Moves

Book 4: Haunted Haven Mystery

by Carol J. Perry

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Innkeeper Maureen Doherty is well aware that no one—when asked why they come to Florida—says, “For the ghosts.” But her historic Haven House Inn has spirits to spare, and just when she thinks she’s met every ghost in town—a new one pops up to help solve a murder. Or so it seems . . .

When the body of “how-to” book writer Terry Holiday is found by Aster Paterson in her flower garden, the townspeople of Haven are shocked. But they’re even more surprised when the beloved bookshop owner insists that the spirit of her late husband Peter Paterson led her to the grim discovery. Only Aster seems unsurprised—she’s been baking his favorite shortbread cookies every day, hoping to lure his ghost back home . . .
 
Even Maureen is a little skeptical—until Peter’s ghost appears in the bookshop window for all to see. Haven’s hard-headed realist cop Frank Hubbard is determined to unveil whatever trickery led to the apparition, as he suspects the answer to who killed Terry Holiday may be connected to the illusion.
 
If Maureen’s learned anything since she moved from New England and inherited her haunted inn, it’s that 1) ghosts are real (at least some of them), and 2) so are murderers. She doesn’t need a how-to manual to solve a murder; she’s done it before. But with suspects ranging from a mystery writers group to a ghostwriter who just checked in at the inn, she will need a little help from her spirited sleuths . . .

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 240

Sample

“Say, Maureen, the couple in the Joe DiMaggio suite—Mr. and Mrs. McKenna—called me again about the perfume smell in the bedroom.” Hilda, nighttime desk manager, greeted her boss, Maureen Doherty, the owner/manager of Haven, Florida’s historic Haven House Inn, with the first-thing-in-the-morning guest complaint. “They say Mrs. McKenna is allergic and that their labradoodle Snicker won’t even go into the bedroom. I’ve spoken to both housekeepers, and neither Gert nor Molly wears any kind of fragrance when they’re working.”

“Chanel Number Five again, I suppose.” Maureen had heard the perfume smell complaint from that suite before, although not recently. The suite had obtained its name because, according to an old guest register, Joltin’ Joe had spent a weekend there back in March of 1961, and it was always one of the most popular suites in Haven House. All of the larger suites bore the famous names of guests who’d once stayed there—including Babe Ruth, Jimmy Stewart, Burt Reynolds, Arthur Godfrey, and Dawn Wells.

The two women, along with Maureen’s golden retriever Finn, were alone in the reception area, but still, Hilda looked from side to side and lowered her voice. “None of the newspaper reports said that Marilyn Monroe was with DiMaggio when he stayed here.”

Maureen shrugged. “I know. But so many people have smelled her perfume, it kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

Hilda put a finger to her lips. “Yeah, but I’ll never tell.”

Maureen laughed. “I won’t if you won’t.”

“Woof,” Finn agreed.

The possible presence of a long-dead movie star in one of the Haven House Inn’s most requested suites was something neither Maureen nor Hilda would discuss in public.

One of the not so well-known features of their charming little city, with its quaint shops, mellow brick-paved sidewalks, and sugar-soft sandy beaches—off the well-beaten path of Florida’s giant Orlando attractions—and one carefully guarded by most residents, is the fact that Haven is haunted. Not just a little bit haunted, but unequivocally, indisputably full-on, house-by-house, haunted. Almost every structure in Haven has one or more resident otherworldly beings.

The secret is remarkably well kept. No one in Haven wants the ghost hunters, the big TV shows with all their crazy gadgets—voice recorders, night-vision cameras, along with the mediums and psychics running around town, attracting all kinds of snoops and weirdos to the quiet, peaceful place Haven appears to be.

“What do you say we offer to move them to another suite until we can get theirs properly aired out,” Maureen suggested.

“Or until Marilyn decides to move out.” Hilda tried to muffle a snicker with her hand. “Let’s offer them the Jimmy Stewart suite. It’s on the same floor and just as nice.”

“Good idea,” Maureen agreed. “According to the 1954 guest register, James Stewart stayed here when they were shooting Strategic Air Command. He played a third baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals, and they shot a lot of the scenes at Al Lang Field over in St. Petersburg.”

“They’re obviously baseball fans,” Hilda said. “That’s why they asked for the DiMaggio suite. They’ll love the Cardinals connection.”

“I hope so. Maybe we can arrange a trip over to Al Lang Field for them,” Maureen suggested, “and we can get them a copy of Strategic Air Command, no problem. Aster, down at the bookshop, keeps old Florida movies in stock all the time. On the way back from my beach run, I’ll stop and get it for them.”

“They’ve left a wake-up call for six. They’re looking forward to trying Ted’s Cream Cheese and Strawberry Stuffed French Toast Casserole for breakfast. I’ll tell them about the Jimmy Stewart suite. Is Ted running with you this morning?” Hilda managed a casual tone.

“Yes.” Maureen’s reply was equally casual.

“Woof,” offered Finn, straining at his leash as Ted appeared from the nearby dining area.

Maureen and Haven House’s handsome executive chef, Ted Carr, along with Finn, often ran together along the nearby beach in the early morning hours. Maureen and Ted each tried hard, but not always successfully, to make it perfectly clear to the Haven House staff that the friendship—including the beach runs—was purely platonic. Of course, that wasn’t entirely true. Maureen knew that the bond between them was a strong one, and seemed to grow stronger all the time. There’d even been veiled hints of “marriage someday” and a recent question from Ted about her ring size. Still, the idea of “the boss” being romantically involved with an employee was, to her mind, “inappropriate.” Besides that, she wasn’t sure what Ted thought about ghosts. It was a taboo subject around Haven, and she surely didn’t want to scare him away at this point by telling him that she shared her suite with a particularly lively one.

Ted bent, scratched Finn behind the ears, and greeted the women with a “Good morning,” casting an approving glance toward Maureen’s matching pink shorts and shirt—part of the wardrobe she’d assembled during her ten-year career as a sportswear buyer in the now-closed Bartlett’s of Boston department store. Actually, the ownership of Haven House Inn had come as a total surprise to Maureen when the lawyer’s letter had arrived, informing her that she’d inherited the property from the late Penelope Josephine Gray. She’d never heard of Ms. Gray, and had no idea why this had happened, but sure enough, she owned the place—lock, stock, and—ghosts. It had taken a while for Maureen to accept the fact that she was suddenly a property owner. It had taken a little longer to accept the part about the ghosts. She’d never before been a believer in spirits or specters or apparitions or ghosts by any other name.

She’d become a believer, and she also believed in the warm and wonderful feelings that had grown between the handsome cook and herself. Maureen often wondered how Ted unfailingly managed to come directly from the warm, busy, crowded kitchen where he’d just supervised the creation of one of the Haven House’s justly famous breakfasts, into the adjoining dining room looking cool, unruffled, and immaculate in shorts and white T-shirt. “Let’s go work up an appetite for that special French toast,” she said.

“Finn and I will race you to the fishing pier sign,” he said, taking the dog’s leash.

“You’re on,” Maureen said. “Hilda, Shelly will be here in a few minutes to relieve you. See you tonight.”

“No hurry,” Hilda said. “I love my job.”

“I love mine too.” Ted held the green door open, and Maureen stepped out onto the inn’s broad front porch. Even at this early hour, she wasn’t surprised to see four of the inn’s year-round residents seated in their accustomed rocking chairs at the head of the stairway. Senior citizens George and Sam, Gert and Molly had, more or less, come with the inn. They, along with Ted, had lived there in exchange for work, meals, and a small salary by arrangement with Penelope Josephine. George and Sam worked as handymen and Gert and Molly as housekeepers. Ted was a bartender before Maureen had promoted him to chef. The live-in team had worked out so well that Maureen saw no reason to upset the convivial applecart.

Finn, tail wagging joyously, greeted the foursome—one at a time, with doggy licks and an occasional excited “woof,” receiving in exchange loving words, welcome head-scratches, and some hugs and kisses.

“You’d better give this boy a good run,” George said. “He’s looking a little chubby lately.”

Finn shook his head and gave a low “woof.”

Maureen frowned. “Do you think so, Ted? Has he been begging for scraps in the kitchen?”

“Most of the staff know better than to feed him anything,” Ted promised, “but the new pastry girl, Joyce Beacome, has a hard time resisting his ‘starving puppy’ face. I’ll speak to her about it again.” He patted Finn’s head. “And no, I don’t think he looks chubby.”

Gert gave George a playful punch on the arm. “Put your glasses on, old man. You’re probably looking down at your own round belly.”

“Pastry girl, huh?” Sam rocked forward. “Any specialties?”

“She makes a mean key lime pie,” Ted promised, “and she seems to be pretty talented around food in general. I think she’s going to be a real asset. Anyway, you’ll get to sample the pie later this week.” Finn’s tug on the leash was more insistent. “Let’s go, Maureen.” The two followed Finn down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. They began an easy jog toward the beach at the end of the Beach Boulevard, then picked up the pace as they moved onto the hard-packed sand at the water’s edge, with the leashed dog in the lead.

Maureen looked up and down the early morning, nearly deserted beach. “Are we still on for that race to the fishing pier sign?”

“Absolutely.” Ted grinned. “Ready, Finn?”

“Woof.”

She was sure Ted would win the race, but the exertion would be fun anyway. She began with a fast sprint, pink-sneakered feet pounding on white sand. She arrived, out of breath, at the weather-beaten sign advertising Haven’s fleet of fishing charter boats. As she’d expected, Ted was already there, leaning against the sign as though he’d been there for hours. Finn, tongue out and panting happily, sat at his feet.

That old sign held special meaning for Maureen. Her parents had taken a picture of her standing in front of it when she was twelve, proudly holding a fish she’d caught. They’d had that fish for dinner, prepared at a nearby restaurant. Oddly enough, Maureen had discovered a print of that same picture in a small gold frame in Penelope Josephine Gray’s office. Odder still, Ted had told her that his mother had owned a small restaurant just across from the pier, and that as a youngster, he’d helped with the cooking there. Had Ted cooked that long-ago fish? Strange.

Maureen no longer pondered very much over strange events happening in Haven. The entire journey, from the moment back in Massachusetts when she’d received the lawyer’s letter telling her about her inheritance, had been pretty much a series of strange events. She was almost getting used to it.

The pair ended their run with a few stretches beside the large white building at the head of the boulevard known as the Haven Casino—often the site of trade shows, baby showers, lectures, and other community events.

“You go on ahead, Ted.” Maureen reached for Finn’s leash. “I know you have a kitchen to oversee. I’m going to stop at the bookshop to pick up an old movie.”

“Okay.” He handed her the leash, his hand grasping hers for a few extra seconds. “See you at breakfast?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Watching as he jogged easily toward the inn, she headed for the bookshop. Erle Stanley Gardner, the bookshop cat, looked up from where he was snoozing on the round wooden cable reel that served as a table in front of the store. Erle Stanley, who has no fear of dogs, greeted Finn with a pink-tongued lick on the nose. Maureen sat in one of the yellow-painted Adirondack chairs, looped Finn’s leash over the arm of the chair, while Aster Patterson waved from the doorway.

“Good morning, Maureen,” Aster called. “I’ve just brewed a pot of that English tea that you like, and I have fresh-baked shortbread cookies too. I’ll be out in a jiffy.” Aster’s gray hair was tucked up under a Guy Harvey visor, and she wore a vintage Tampa Bay Lightning Lecavalier number four jersey with plaid Bermuda shorts. Aster baked those shortbread cookies every day. Hers was one of the very few un-haunted structures in Haven. The cookies had been the favorites of her late husband, Peter Patterson, and she harbored a sincere hope that they’d guide his spirit home. Carrying a tray with a flower-sprigged china teapot, two cups and saucers, silver-plated sugar bowl and cream pitcher, and a platter of the promised cookies, Aster shooed Erle Stanley off the table and joined Maureen.

“How’s business at the inn?” Aster poured tea into flower-sprigged cup, added one lump of sugar with silver tongs, and handed it to Maureen. “It’s been a little slow here. I’m looking for some new kinds of sales promotion. I know you’re good at that sort of thing because of your work in that big department store up in Boston.”

“I’d say the inn business is about normal for this time of year.” Maureen accepted the tea and reached for a cookie. Just one cookie, she told herself. I need to leave room for Ted’s French toast. “The book department at Bartlett’s of Boston used to run quite a few author book signings that always drew a crowd,” she said. “There are a lot of authors in the Boston area, and we used to get some down from New York sometimes too.”

Aster pulled an envelope from under a fish-shaped brass paperweight. “Here’s a coincidence. This is from a small book publisher about a how-to author named Terry Holiday. He’s in Tampa now, and he’ll come to Haven if we invite him. He offered to do a signing, and he’ll bring his own books.”

“That’s worth a try for sure,” Maureen said. “It won’t cost you anything. You might contact some of the local writers’ associations too. They’ll be happy to find you some authors from around here.”

“I’m going to call that publisher today, and sign that guy up,” Aster declared. “Besides that, one of those book groups meets here once a week.” She glanced at her pink Power Rangers watch. “They’ll be here at ten today. They’re all mystery writers. They call themselves Murder Incorporated.”

“No kidding. Do you sell their books here?”

“Sure.”

“There you go. They’d probably love to do a group signing.”

“Really? Say, Maureen, do me a favor and drop in on the meeting. See what you think of them. I’d trust your judgment.”

“At ten? It sounds interesting. I’ll drop Finn off, change clothes, have breakfast, and get things started at Haven House. If there’s time, I’ll be here,” Maureen promised. “But what I came in for is a copy of Strategic Air Command. Got one?”

“Sure thing. A good old Jimmy Stewart movie. No problem. You just relax and finish your tea while I ring it up. I’ll throw in a bag of shortbread cookies for your front porch crew, okay?”

“More than okay. They’ll be thrilled.” Maureen stood, paid her bill, picked up Finn’s leash, and, carrying two blue Haven Bookshop bags, started down the boulevard toward her inn. The front porch crew were, as expected, happy with the gift of cookies. Molly took charge and divided the round treats into four separate piles, quickly tossing the one leftover cookie into her mouth before anyone could object.

Shelly reported from the reception desk that the folks in the DiMaggio suite had happily agreed to the room swap and were already at breakfast, and that she’d checked in one new guest. “Single fellow,” she offered. “One suitcase and a laptop. I put him in the Arthur Godfrey Suite. He says he’ll be here for a week or so.” She turned the guest book in Maureen’s direction. “Nice handwriting.” Maureen glanced at the name, agreeing that Carleton Fretham did indeed have a fine hand, and undoubtedly an excellent pen.

“He’s already having breakfast too. He’s real good-looking. Want to take a look?” Shelly inclined her head toward the dining room entrance.

Maureen laughed. “I’m not in the market, but I’ll check him out later.” She and Finn climbed two flights of stairs, and Finn gave an excited “woof” and ran, leash dragging behind him, toward what the housekeeping team called “the penthouse”—the only suite at the top of the building. The dog’s welcoming “woof” told Maureen that she could expect company behind her door.

The rooms had once been home to Penelope Josephine Gray, and had come not only with some wonderful mid-century modern furniture, but with a pair of senior cats named Bogie and Bacall. Bogie was a big striped tiger cat who looked as if he’d had a tough life before Penelope Josephine had rescued him, with one ear that looked like it was half bitten off. Bacall, on the other hand, was a big cat too, but she was clearly a princess. A registered French Chartreux, she was silvery gray with copper-colored eyes. The suite also came with a resident ghost named Lorna DuBois.

Sure enough, Lorna’s shimmering form sat on the long aqua couch. Lorna, in life, had been what was known in the 1930s as a movie starlet, and her glamorous ghost always appeared in black and white, just as she’d appeared in her numerous films. She hugged Finn, then stood and did a model-like turn. “I borrowed this from your closet. Like it?” She wore a black-and-white version of the Hawaiian print tunic Maureen had planned to wear with white pants for the rest of the day.

“Sure. Help yourself. I got it from our new gift shop. I’m going to wear it to a mystery writers’ meeting after breakfast.” Maureen was accustomed to Lorna’s “borrowing.” Lorna simply borrowed what she called “the essence” of the item while the real outfit remained in the owner’s closet—or maybe in Nordstrom’s or Tiffany’s window.

“Are you thinking of writing a mystery?” Lorna wanted to know.

“Good heavens, no. I have enough to do already. Aster is thinking about having some writers do book signings at the shop to increase business. She thought I might like to meet some of the local authors. They call themselves Murder Incorporated.”

“Murder, huh? That doesn’t sound like much fun to me. I’m wearing mine tonight to the Polynesian Fire Luau in Orlando. See you later. Bye, Finn.” She began to shimmer away then for an instant, then popped right back. “I don’t think you should go. Bad karma.”

Maureen showered and changed into slim white pants and the colorful tunic. Then, carrying the blue bag containing the movie for the McKennas with her, she headed for the dining room and Ted’s French toast.

By the time 9:45 rolled around, she’d already approved the day’s menus, supervised the room swap, and arranged for George to give the relocated couple the movie, a tour of Al Lang Field with a side trip to Tropicana Field thrown in, agreed that changing Gert’s young kitten Jo’s name to Joe was a good idea since he’. . .