The Stuffing of Nightmares (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Book 7) (4 page)

M
abel Stokely was washing
the dishes and placing them in the drying rack, thinking dark thoughts. She was a full-figured woman in her late fifties, with black-framed glasses and a dignified manner. She was thinking about the letter that had arrived that morning, the missive from the bank that they were about to foreclose on the mortgage if the Stokelys didn’t fork over fifty thousand dollars within the next couple of days. The long and steady stream of letters had started to arrive a month ago, each one more threatening than the last. Until then, she hadn’t a clue they were behind on their mortgage. They’d always paid on time, but a visit to Armstrong & Tillich had revealed that a great portion of the money had ended up in a different account.

The previous bank manager’s account.

Neil Domino had been in charge of Armstrong & Tillich for decades, until he was arrested for the murder of a number of people and now spent the remainder of his life in prison. Apparently killing people hadn’t been his only crime. Before he went away for life, he’d skimmed several accounts and appropriated the money. And one of those unfortunates were the Stokelys.

She and Mark had argued that since it was obviously not their fault that the money they paid into their mortgage had been stolen, they couldn’t be held accountable, and, more importantly, couldn’t be considered in default.

But apparently sound logic wasn’t one of the hallmarks of Armstrong & Tillich. The new manager insisted they were as much to blame as the former manager. They should have done a better job monitoring their account.

That was simply ludicrous, of course, only now they were about to lose their house, and even the lawyer they’d hired said the process of righting this wrong could take months, at which point they’d already be evicted and forced to move in with their daughter Natalie and her fiancé.

Only a few more years and the house would have been paid off. And now this…

She muttered a few choice curse words under her breath, aimed at Armstrong & Tillich. The worst part was that the new manager was an old high school friend of Mabel’s, and she would have expected that she would have set the record straight just for old time’s sake. But no. She had to do things by the book, eager as she was to make regional manager and show her higher-ups that she was as tough as they came.

Mabel slammed another plate onto the drying rack and plunged her dishcloth into the soapy water, then dumped another couple of plates into the sink. Doing the dishes usually helped to clear her mind, but today it only served to infuriate her even more. She scrubbed and scrubbed until she was afraid she was going to make a hole in her late mother’s china, her cheeks burning red.

Then she noticed her husband Mark had sidled up to her.

“Are you all right, hon?” he asked, worry lacing his voice.

“No, I’m not all right,” she snapped, throwing down the dishcloth, the soapy water splashing up and hitting her in the eye. “Dammit!” she cried.

Mark took a dish towel and dried her face, wiping her graying locks from her brow. She was in the habit of dying her hair, but with the stress of the last couple of weeks she hadn’t had time to go to Rita.

Well, her appearance was the least of her problems right now.

“I know it’s hard to imagine,” Mark said softly,” but I’m sure something will come up to make this problem go away.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, a little less snappish than before. Mark always had a soothing effect on her. She was prone to volcanic tempers, and only when at work at Town Hall was she able to keep those stormy emotions in check. Here at home, when it was just her and Mark, she didn’t bother trying to be nice and civil. She knew that he was man enough to take it, and calm her down with a simple gesture like this, or crack a joke to clear the air.

“Well, I do think so,” he said, and she looked up into his eyes, wondering if there was something he knew that she didn’t.

“What do you mean? Have you heard back from the bank?”

He shook his head. “I’ve heard from your father.”

Her jaw dropped. “My father?” Dad had died years ago. He’d been a disgrace to the family and had died destitute, living on the street. “How can you have heard from my father when he’s been dead for five years?”

Mark shrugged and gave her a sheepish grin. “I had a dream that was so vivid it was practically as if he was in the same room with us.”

“Last night?”

“Last night.”

It was odd, she felt. She’d also dreamed of her father, only her dream had been vaguer. He’d appeared before her, along with a legion of his seedy buddies, and then had vanished. “What did he say?” she asked trepidatiously.

“He said that as long as we stick together, everything will be fine.” He was gently massaging her shoulders and neck. “And I believed him.”

She thought for a moment. Only recently she’d shared an awfully weird adventure with other members of the Happy Bays neighborhood watch committee. She’d seen things that other people would deem impossible. Things that she had thought impossible until a short while ago. She’d seen ghosts, and they’d talked to her and had convinced her to throw out her old ideas of what was possible and impossible. Could it be that her father had appeared in their bedroom last night? And that Mark—always a light sleeper—had talked to him? She wouldn’t put it past the old coot. He’d been a pain in the patootie even when alive, so why would he be different when dead?

“Did he tell you anything specific?” she asked, looking up at her husband.

He shook his head, the crow’s feet around his eyes deepening as a smile creased his face. “Nope. But I believed him. I don’t know how or why, but I think all is not lost. We just might save this old house of ours after all.”

She nodded. The mayor had suggested pulling some strings, but apparently his strings didn’t reach high enough to sway the powers that be. Happy Bays was just a small town, and Ted MacDonald only a small-town mayor. The owners of Armstrong & Tillich weren’t inclined to let their policies be swayed by the likes of some local politician. But could they be swayed by the cranky old ghost of an inveterate drunk and troublemaker?

For the first time in weeks, hope surged in her bosom, and she allowed herself to be hugged by Mark. If her father was getting involved things might just turn around, she thought. And she sincerely hoped they would.

T
here was
something to be said for spending a summer morning on the beach, Reece thought. He’d been stretching his legs after his customary morning run when he spotted a gorgeous young woman walking out of the surf. The sunlight picked up every nuance and curvature of her body, and glittering droplets sprinkled down like a curtain of Swarovski diamonds. He involuntarily pursed his lips in admiration. If he hadn’t been engaged to Alice, he wouldn’t have minded making this beauty’s acquaintance.

As it was, he was off the market, which of course didn’t prevent him from drinking her in with his eyes. To his surprise, she made a beeline for him, her tan and curvaceous body even more stunning from up close. And as she approached, she snatched up a beach bag and picked out a towel.

He shielded his eyes from the sun to get a better look and saw that she was a natural blonde, her smile as dazzling as her dash from the surf.

He reciprocated with a smile of his own. In fact, the crooked smile that he now shot at her was the smile that had made him a household name among every woman in the US of A, and his movies box-office hits every single time.

“Aren’t you Chuck MacLachlan?” the young woman asked.

His smile widened. “Yep, that’s me.”

She gave a squeal of joy as she toweled off. “Hey, I love your movies!”

“Thanks. That’s great to hear,” he said smoothly.

“I’ve seen them all. Crunch Time, right? Hot Potato?”

He grinned. She was gorgeous, with honey-toned skin and eyes the color of amber, an oval face and a pointy chin that gave her something piquant.

“You’re a fan, I can tell.”

“More than a fan—I
love
your work,” she gushed.

He smiled again. He was used to the adulation—women walking up to him when he was having dinner and asking for a selfie. In fact, he was fully expecting this woman to whip out a smartphone from her bag when she whipped out a gun instead and pointed the barrel at his heart.

“Do you mind?” she asked, her smile disappearing.

He swallowed with difficulty. “Do I mind what?”

“Do you mind doing me a favor?”

He was still half expecting her to ask for a selfie or an autograph, though he vaguely realized the chances of that were pretty slim and growing slimmer.

“What favor?”

She narrowed her eyes, and her lips quirked up into a grin. “Drop dead.”

And then she pulled the trigger.

B
rian furiously paced
the floor of his Fifth Avenue condo. He’d moved here after being appointed president of the Wardop Group, the place having previously belonged to Peverell himself. Just one of the perks that came with the job, along with the private jet, the house in Aspen, the mansions in Palm Beach and Beverly Hills, and the apartments in London, Paris and Tokyo. At first, he hadn’t wanted to move here from his Brooklyn walk-up, which was much closer to Mom. But then Peverell had convinced him that the president of Wardop couldn’t stay at some dingy flat and needed to live in style.

The one thing that he disliked about it was that Pev had a habit of dropping in on him from time to time, usually when he was least expecting him to. Gradually he’d gotten used to the old ghost, however, he still found the man’s intensity and brusqueness still hard to bear.

Over the course of their unusual cooperation, they’d managed to lay down some ground rules, one of which was that they never met in the presence of others—Peverell’s continuing leadership was a secret only known to Brian and Peverell’s loyal secretary—now Brian’s secretary, Rachel Fowley. The woman was probably Methuselah’s age and had the wrinkles and the wry sense of humor to prove it.

One of the other ground rules was that Peverell respected Brian’s privacy, and stayed out of his personal life as much as possible—only meeting him at the office. Unfortunately, Pev had a habit of breaking his rules whenever he saw fit. Now that Brian needed him, he was nowhere to be found, though.

“Pev—I mean Mr. Wardop—I need to talk to you,” he repeated, knowing that sooner or later his message would carry across the veil and summon his dead employer.

Suddenly Peverell’s scratchy voice rang through the room. “What is it this time, Brian?” the old fossil asked. “Trouble with the board again? Mergers and acquisitions not going according to plan?”

“Nothing of the kind,” he said gratefully. “I’m facing some issues of a more personal nature—issues that require your particular skill set.”

His employer raised an eyebrow. “My skill set? My boy, whatever did you get yourself into now?”

“It’s not as bad as you think,” he said, annoyed. It wasn’t as if he was constantly getting himself into trouble, as the other seemed to imply.

Peverell gracefully took a seat on the couch, and stretched his emaciated limbs, as always clad in the black tux he’d been buried in. His face, which reminded anyone who gazed upon it of a mummy’s, opened into a yawn. “Tell me all,” he said, resigning himself to a long and boring story.

Brian took a seat on the adjoining couch. “The thing is—I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I have a brother.”

“Of course I know. Brice. Your twin. When I had you investigated I learned all there is to know about that young rascal. What about him?”

Rascal was the right word. Brice had a habit of getting into all kinds of trouble, not by accident, but by design. He liked to stir up trouble for others, simply because he could, and most specifically for his big brother—Brian was five minutes older than Brice.

“I have the distinct impression he’s trying to destroy my reputation.”

“Oh, and we can’t have that now, can we?” Peverell asked lazily. He seemed unfazed by the news.

“It’s not just that. He’s been undermining my attempts to organize the Wraith Wranglers.”

Peverell rolled his eyes, an odd sight as they were lodged so deeply in their sockets it was hard to spot them, except for the occasional flicker. “Oh, dear.” He clucked his tongue. “Why don’t you simply give up on that silly project of yours, Brian? Getting involved with ghosts will only get you into more trouble than you can handle, which is bad for the group.”

“I know,” Brian said, but added stubbornly, “Look, this is what I want. And you promised me you were fine with it. It’s the reason I accepted your proposal in the first place.”

“I know I did, but I didn’t know what I know now. That the members of the board will go to any length to kick you out and take control of the group.” Peverell sat up. When it came to the fate of his precious company he was always more animated. “Didn’t I tell you to be careful with that ghost crap?”

“Strange way to talk about your own species,” Brian pointed out.

“Well, they might be my species now, but my priority is still the Wardop Group, and so is yours. If your brother is stirring up trouble, it means he’s found your weakness, and will exploit it. How much does he know?”

“Enough to have smeared my reputation by preceding my team to Castle Windermere and making quite a nuisance of himself over there.”

Like Brian, Brice had the capacity to talk to the dead, only he liked to make their lives as miserable as possible. Not because he hated them, but because he found it funny to pick on them. Like kids torturing animals.

“So he knows about your wraith wranglers, huh? How is that even possible? I thought you told me you were playing it very close to your vest?”

“I am. Only you and Miss Fowley know about them. And the Wranglers themselves, of course.” He neglected to mention that a few more people in Happy Bays might have gotten hip to the project. When he’d started recruiting people for the team, he might have mentioned it to a few of them.

“And you’re sure those four idiots won’t go blabbing about their work?”

“In the first place, they’re not idiots, and secondly…” he nodded. “Yes, I can vouch for them.” Though of course he couldn’t. Fee and Alice, yes, they wouldn’t talk. But Rick and Reece? They weren’t exactly the brightest bulbs. “Can’t you find out who’s been talking? Can’t you read Brice’s mind?”

Peverell eyed him thoughtfully. “I could, but I don’t know if I should.”

“But you’ve done it, right? Isn’t that the reason the group has been so successful? Because you can now read the minds of our competitors?”

Peverell grinned. “You got me,” he said with his croaky voice. He rubbed a bony finger along his chin. “I’ll see what I can do, but you have to promise me you’ll deal with him. If word ever gets out about our special deal…”

“I’m sure he doesn’t know about that. There’s no way that he could.”

Or was there?

Peverell sensed his hesitation. “This brother of yours could become a real problem, Brian. He needs handling.”

“I know,” he said ruefully. “But what can I do? It’s not like I can kill him.”

Then he caught the look on Peverell’s face. And he was shaking his head before the old man spoke the words. “You could,” the old ghost said slyly. “It would solve the problem.”

He was still shaking his head. No way. “You can’t do that.”

“You’re right about that. I most certainly can’t. But you could.”

“He’s my brother. I can’t possibly do that.”

Peverell shrugged. “Let’s see how this plays out. But your priority is the group, Brian. The group before anything else.” He gave him a penetrating look that bored straight into his soul. “Even before family, you understand?”

Brian felt a distinct chill race up and down his spine. Even though he appreciated Peverell and all he’d done for him, the old guy still had the capacity to spook him from time to time. And now was exactly such a time.