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  MRS. MORRIS AND THE GHOST

  “I want you to help me,” Jack insisted, his body solidifying. “I’m not leaving . . . because I can’t.” In a flash he was beside her, looking animated. “I was murdered. You must believe that.”

  “I will look into it, Jack. But I need something from you as well.” She put her hands on her hips. “Promise me you won’t try to make yourself known to my guests.”

  When he didn’t answer right away, she paused in thought. “Will having the house filled with strangers bother you? Where do you sleep?”

  “It isn’t like that. I can’t explain—there’s just a period of darkness when I’m not making myself visible.” He turned to face her. “In the past few years I’ve learned the boundaries—I don’t leave the house. I can go as far as the gardens and the end of the property, but I can never get across that fence.”

  “Jack?” she asked softly, taking one step back. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m a prisoner in my own home. How okay can I be?” He gave her a look of apology. “I’m sorry if I frightened you again. I will try to contain my temper. This is your home now.” He moved away from the window. “You can see me. You know I exist. Please, help set me free.”

  “I will try, Jack. But if the police don’t think you were murdered, how am I to prove that you were?” She released a sigh. “I have no experience in this sort of thing. I’m a marketing major, not a detective.”

  “Then find one.”

  She would do her best—but she had to take care of herself too. Her plan for a classy and historical B and B would be ruined by a ghostly presence. Sure, she was living in Salem and she could probably capitalize on it, but it was not what she had envisioned. Not by a long shot . . .

  MRS. MORRIS AND THE GHOST

  Traci Wilton

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  MRS. MORRIS AND THE GHOST

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Teaser chapter

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Patrice Wilton and Traci Hall

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2151-8

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2152-5 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2152-7 (ebook)

  To cozy mystery readers everywhere

  We would not be here without Evan Marshall, our agent, or the support of our families and friends. We thank our editor, John Scognamiglio, and all the publishing folks at Kensington for bringing Mrs. Morris and Jack to life.

  Thanks to communityauthors.com for all the help.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Charlene Morris may be impulsive sometimes, but crazy she was not. Yes, buying an 8,000-square-foot estate in Salem, Massachusetts, sight unseen, might seem extreme, but she’d needed a clean break after her husband’s tragic death, something new to take her mind off the pain and loneliness of losing her soul mate.

  Two days ago, she’d packed up her Honda Pilot and left Chicago. She’d spent the night in Philadelphia and had been on the road since four this morning. Now, rounding the last corner on Crown Point Road, Charlene caught sight of the widow’s walk in the distance, the top of the brick-red roof. Parking at the end of the flagstone driveway, Charlene peered over the dashboard toward the house. Holy smokes. Slate-gray timbers, double polished-oak doors, and a beautiful old-fashioned porch.

  Charlene turned off the ignition and leaped out of the car. Breathing deep, she took in the blooming late-summer flowers and the hint of salt from Salem Harbor. The sky was cerulean blue with the occasional billowing white clouds. She touched her heart-shaped diamond stud earrings—the last gift Jared had given her before his car accident—and laughed out loud. “Oh, hon. You should see this!”

  The vast property’s mature oaks showed early signs of orange and red. A sweeping lawn graced the front of the Victorian façade, which had been built around the original structure that dated from the late 1700s. Almost exactly like the online pictures, which was fortunate since she’d created business cards using the image of the estate: CHARLENE’S—SALEM’S MOST ELEGANT BED AND BREAKFAST.

  Hunching her shoulders against the cool ocean breeze, Charlene’s sneakers slipped on the grass as she raced to the back of the house. A weathered wooden swing hung from a large oak tree, and a long, rectangular, wooden deck with an overhang wrapped the back. She could see herself reading, sipping iced tea on warm, sunny days, or drinking cocoa when it snowed.

  She imagined children laughing and running, playing tag among the trees. Her smile faded. She and Jared had wanted kids. Two at least. But after so many failed attempts, they’d eventually stopped trying. Secretly, she’d hoped that once she quit fretting about getting pregnant, it might happen on its own. Now . . . it was too late.

  No regrets. Charlene embraced this new beginning with all her heart.

  Car tires crunched on flagstone and joy rushed through her, hoping that it would be Mr. Harvey. By the time she’d rounded the house, he stood beside his maroon Chrysler with SALEM REALTY on the door panel. He headed toward her with a broad, toothy smile on his round face. He wore a beige plaid suit jacket, a cheap toupee, and was shorter than her by at least four inches, making him around five feet five.

  He shook her hand. “Mrs. Morris. I’m Ernie Harvey, so pleased to meet you!” He continued the vigorous motion with his right hand, causing his hairpiece to slip. “I hope you’ve had time to get acquainted with our charming city?”

  “It’s nice to meet you as well, and no, I just arrived.”

  “Oh, you’ll have to see the Witch Trial Museum and The House of Seven Gables.” His tiny blue eyes were swallowed up in his face. “We have such a lively history here. And you must brush up on it as your guests will want to know everything about the original witch hunts. It just never gets old.”

  Charlene took her hand back with a laugh.
“I will, but right now I’m dying to peek inside.” She’d told him her plans to open a bed and breakfast just to make sure there was no problem with zoning. She glanced back at her new home. The thought that it was really, truly hers sent a thrill down her spine. “I’ve been reading up on Salem’s fascinating history for the past several months.”

  She’d also put together a profitable marketing plan, and if all went well she’d own the house lock, stock, and barrel within ten years. As a savvy advertising executive, she saw the possibilities and figured she was sitting on a small, underpriced gold mine.

  “Well, let’s not waste time.” Ernie squinted in the direction of the house. “Let me show you your new home and then be gone. It’s a substantial property that I’ll let you explore mostly on your own. If you don’t mind,” he added with another toothy grin. He dabbed at perspiration on his forehead with a white paper napkin.

  Strange. It was not a particularly warm late-September morning—only seventy degrees. Charlene was comfortable in jeans and a teal-blue tee, her long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, so it would be out of her way while unpacking.

  Ernie Harvey had an unusual gait, high and bouncy as he skipped along the path toward the wide porch, where four Adirondack chairs waited invitingly on either side of the impressive wooden double doors. Feeling kind of bouncy herself, she trailed him, one step behind. She held her breath as he unlocked the right side, pushed it open, and stepped aside to allow her in.

  She exhaled in a rush. She’d been concerned that perhaps Mr. Harvey had fudged the photos he’d sent—but no, this was magnificent! There was the stunning stairway that led up to the third floor and the widow’s walk. Open galleries on the second and third floors were railed with ornate wooden carvings, stained in golden oak.

  “This is unbelievable. It’s more than I dared hope.” She put her palm over her fluttering heart. “I feel almost guilty, as though I stole the place.”

  “Oh, don’t, my dear. You paid a good price. A fair price. Not that I want to talk down a property, mind you, but this has been on and off the market for years.” His blue eyes dimmed for an instant and his gaze darted around nervously.

  Before she could ask why, he said, “I hope you will have a long and happy life here.” He looked up the staircase and around the enormous, vacant interior. “As you can see, the dining room is to the right, with the chandelier we discussed, and the living room to the left—with the fireplace.”

  Charlene walked in, the polished wood slick beneath the soles of her sneakers. The house had been professionally cleaned for her arrival.

  Mr. Harvey pulled out a large skeleton key, along with several smaller ones, and handed them to her. “The skeleton key will lock the main doors; the others are marked for the bedrooms. I think it’s self-explanatory, but if you wish, I could walk you through it.” Balancing on his heels, Mr. Harvey rocked back and forth and remained rooted in the doorway.

  Obviously, the poor man had other things to do, and Charlene looked forward to taking her time as she explored her house. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure I can figure it out on my own.”

  “Yes, well”—he cleared his throat—“the bedrooms on the upper floors go right and left off the central staircase. Your suite is behind the kitchen, down the corridor to the right. It’s very spacious and can be rented separately—if you decide you don’t want to inhabit the home yourself.” He dabbed his upper lip and took a step back, onto the front porch—it needed a fresh coat of white paint but seemed in good repair.

  “It won’t be rented. I’m going to love it here. I already do,” she told him with a smile. What an odd little man. “Thank you, Mr. Harvey.” She touched his arm. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Wonderful. Well, I’ll be going.” He put a hand on the open door. “You stay safe now, my dear. If you need anything, you have my number. Feel free to call.”

  And then he was gone with a two-finger salute. He drove away from the house with a single beep of his car horn and the crunch of gravel.

  Giving in to her rush of feelings, she let out a yip of glee. Goodbye, Chicago! Hello, Salem! And God bless those poor witches who’d made this place famous.

  She tore up the stairwell, eager to see it all. Like a child instead of a forty-two-year-old woman, Charlene rushed from one room to the next. The thump of her feet created an echo in the empty halls and she made a mental note to order carpet runners.

  On the second floor were four large suites, which would be perfect for couples or families. The next floor had three single rooms, all facing the front lawn and an open field across the street. The final stairs led up to the widow’s walk that wrapped around the entire home, giving views in every direction. There was an antique brass stand missing the telescope, but even without it, she could see historic Hamilton Hall, the Peabody Essex Museum, and in the distance the thin line of the Atlantic.

  She descended one flight of stairs to the first single bedroom on the left and stepped inside. Ivory walls with dark timber frames around the door and window. No closet, so she’d have to make sure each room had a wardrobe. Feeling a chill down her nape, she shivered and turned quickly, peering behind her. She had the distinct feeling of being watched.

  She rubbed her arms. Had Mr. Harvey come back? Crossing the wooden floor to the window, she peeked down to the curb and saw no sign of his car. Alone. With Jared gone, she should be used to it, but the hairs on her arms raised, nerve endings on high alert.

  Charlene chided herself—just because other people came to Salem for witch stories, didn’t mean she bought into the hocus-pocus. She was here to create a home, away from Chicago and all those poignant, heartbreaking memories of her sweet, wonderful husband. It also put considerable distance between her and her overbearing mother.

  She ran down the stairs to the main floor, which spilled to an expansive foyer, and turned left, to the long, narrow kitchen. Inlaid shelves left room for knickknacks and there was even a butler’s pantry.

  Hope burned bright as she unlocked the door to her private suite. She’d bought a new bedroom set, complete with mattress, for her new beginning, and decided this room would be the first to make homey. The rest of the house was in excellent shape, and she couldn’t wait to put her personal stamp on things and really make the place hers.

  Pushing open the door, a moldy, stale smell assaulted her senses. “Oh no!” The unpleasant odor had to be gone before nightfall, or there was no way she’d be able to sleep here. And if there was an actual leak? A mold problem? The idea of sleeping upstairs with all those empty rooms didn’t appeal to her at all. To be comfortable they needed furnishings, linen, and most of all—people!

  Disappointment hit her hard as she surveyed the three rooms. The living area led onto the porch, a bedroom, and bathroom.

  Two old-fashioned single-pane picture windows were framed with heavy lace drapes. She unlatched the lock and dug her sneakers into the wooden floor, lifting the frame a mere three inches.

  Sweat covered her brow. These hadn’t been used in years. She could benefit from a stronger set of arms—good thing the movers were coming in a few hours. If the rooms weren’t habitable, she might need to put her new bed upstairs for the time being, and that thought gave her strength. With a last push and shove, the second window cracked open an inch.

  “Ha.” She swiped the grime off her hands with satisfaction, grabbed a bottle of water, and then opened the door to the back porch and sat down on the top step. “Don’t worry about the little things.” Where she slept the first night was not a big deal.

  Her plan was to get this enormous place fully furnished and open for business by Halloween. It would take a lot of hard work, but she’d never been afraid of that. Matter-of-fact, she embraced it. Halloween in Salem was the busiest time of the year, and to have every room rented out would be an enormous start, a boost to her bank account, and it was completely doable. I can make this happen.

  She’d budgeted for a full-time gardener, a housekeep
er, and cook, and would need the occasional handyman, but the rest she intended to do herself.

  Right, Jared? I can do this, can’t I? Tears welled as her earlier euphoria collapsed under the weight of reality. She’d invested every last penny to get this property. It’s this or bust. Oh, Jared, help me, honey. I need your support, I always did.

  She heard a noise coming from the purple mountain laurel shrubs at the end of the property, and stood up to get a better look. Probably a squirrel, she told herself. No reason to get jumpy. She hoped it wasn’t a raccoon. They could be real pests, getting into attics or chimneys. Or a bat. The house hadn’t been occupied for some time.

  Hearing it again, she shivered with apprehension and searched the trees that lined her lawn, then turned to the open door at her back. Was there someone there? Watching her?

  No. Get a grip. She was tired from all that driving, her energy low. Her imagination was running rampant, and she’d always had a very inventive mind. That’s why she and Jared had made such a good team. Both at work and at home.

  She’d been the risk taker, the visionary, while her husband had taken care of the nickels and dimes. Now she had to do both, and not get rattled. If she heard a noise there had to be a logical reason.

  Charlene didn’t believe in ghosts, but she knew enough about bad people. A security system should be installed right away—on the plus side, if she couldn’t open the windows, no one else could either.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Realizing she still had a few hours before the delivery truck arrived, Charlene made a second tour of the house with a yellow legal pad and a pen. She started on the third floor with the smaller bedrooms, figuring where the furniture she’d bought could go. She had double twin beds from 1850 with new mattresses. A metal frame from 1890 that fit a queen-sized bed. The eaves on the third smallest bedroom still left room for the full-sized wooden frame on the truck.